Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  “Give me the camera and you get to live another day of being an Army of one,” said Nero. “Try anything funny and I’ll tie a concrete block around your neck and dump your body in the Niagara River.”

  Jake’s eyes locked with Nero’s and he knew in an instant this guy meant what he said. Nero’s eyes seemed a window to his soul — and what stood on the other side rattled him.

  Suddenly Jake remembered he had a copy of every journal page image transferred from his camera onto his laptop. “You win, hotshot. I’m going to reach in my bag for the camera. Put the weapon down. I’m cool.”

  Nero kept the pistol raised as Jake fished out his digital camera and tossed it through the window. Nero placed his weapon on the seat next to him, picked up the camera and turned it on to review the photos.

  He erased everything.

  He then took out the tiny memory card and broke it in half, dropping one half of the card and the camera on the pavement at Jake’s feet. Then with a crude smile, he snapped his fingers. The window motored up and both thugs walked to the other side of the limo to get in. In a moment the vehicle screeched away, leaving Jake standing in a cloud of gray smoke from burnt rubber.

  A vein throbbed in his forehead.

  Just then, his phone rang. He snatched it out of his coat pocket and punched the talk button.

  “Tununda here!”

  “Major? What’s wrong? You sound alarmed.” It was Dr. Ashland.

  “Damn right,” Jake said, picking up his camera and inspecting it for damage. “Some asshole with a Roman emperor’s name of Nero just purchased the Boyd Box from underneath our noses. Walked out with all of it.”

  “Alex Nero, the Indian billionaire? He bought it all? He was there?”

  “Yes, the Indian. You know this guy?” The camera turned on fine and functioned properly. Jake placed it in his briefcase.

  “Not personally, but I’ve read quite a bit on him. He’s the Chief and CEO of the Onondaga Nation and was just voted in as the Head Chief of the Grand Council of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, not to mention being the owner of High Point.”

  “Oh. And what is High Point?” Jake quietly replied, somewhat embarrassed his new boss from California knew more about Iroquois happenings than he did.

  “The gambling resort in the Catskills. Nero is one very powerful casino magnate. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him?” said Ashland in a condescending tone.

  “I don’t follow Native American politics, nor gamble for that matter.”

  “Jake, I meant that he owns the most extensive private Iroquois artifact collection in the world. It’s called the Haudenosaunee Collection. I’m really surprised, since you both are Native American,” Ashland chided.

  “Give me a break already. A few things like Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq kind of got in my way of keeping track of who has the largest arrowhead set. Did you get my e-mail?”

  “Sorry. Yes. Quite astonishing isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and gone too. All of the items, Butler’s letter, the journal. They contained so much incredible history that needs to be investigated. And the cipher codes, the illustrations. We could have had a shot at owning it but Nero bullied his way in and flashed his cash. I won’t let this happen. There’s something we can do.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “In that September 12th journal entry I e-mailed you, I think I can identify who Boyd was talking about when he referred to the other half of the code being hidden in his craft brother’s trade tool. I’m pretty sure he was referring to his sergeant, a Sean McTavish. They were Brothers in the Freemasons and that’s how fellow members refer to each other.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “Now, if we can track down genealogical records of this McTavish and what his trade tool is, then that’s where the second half of that odd lettering is. Maybe we can then decipher the whole message. Which would lead us straight to Boyd’s buried war loot and then onto General Sullivan’s sunken cannon of gold! We can make a positive out of this negative loss. We can make history out of this whole ordeal. It’s what our mission at MHI is. All of our discoveries will belong to the institute. Do you know what this will do for public relations? Plus we’d screw Nero in the end.”

  Jake waited for a response but none came. There was a long pause. “You there?”

  “Slow down there Indiana Jones,” Ashland said with a condescending chuckle. “You want to go off on some wild treasure hunt? What is this, a sequel to the movie National Treasure? You want to screw Alex Nero too? First of all, your reaction is quite inappropriate to want to screw over one of the most powerful men in our field. MHI doesn’t need this headache and quite frankly, neither do I. The Boyd Box is gone. It was bought fair and square. Let’s just accept it and let it go. We win some we lose some. It’s the nature of the business. Now, I’ve got to make a phone call to the director to break the bad news. You just take it easy. Get some rest, okay? You’ve had a long day.” Ashland trailed off, wanting to end the conversation.

  “W-what?” said Jake, stunned at Ashland’s rebuke. “The deal was not square. Nero snatched it before anyone else could place an assessment on it. He bent the rules and we will too. My God. We’ve got all the clues at our fingertips. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for a historian and you just want to cut and run and appease him by saying we win some, we lose some?”

  “Insubordination!” Ashland blurted. “You may have cut the corners on the battlefield Major, but you will not break the rules under my watch. MHI is on a new bus ride to excellence under my supervision and you have to make the decision whether you want to be a passenger on that bus or leave your seat for someone else. I am ordering you to LEAVE IT ALONE.”

  Jake fumed inside. He had enough of the politically correct clichés. “Oh, grow some balls for Chris-sake!”

  His boss gasped. The phone clicked dead.

  “Ah, Jake, you stupid hothead,” he scolded himself. And now another stupid phrase his uncle always told him crossed his mind. Even a fish wouldn’t get caught if he kept his mouth shut. He had botched his first assessment, put his job in jeopardy, and had a wealthy collector pull a weapon on him and the damn day hadn’t even finished yet. Some icing on the cake this assignment turned out to be.

  9

  Tonawanda Band of Seneca Indian Reservation, near Akron, N.Y.

  PHONING AHEAD TO his uncle to say he was in the area and stopping by for a visit to unwind, Jake turned off the Thruway at the Pembroke exit and headed north on Route 77 to Indian Falls, the southern entry point into the Tonawanda Band of Seneca Indian Reservation. The waning light of dusk was setting in as he made the left turn near Tonawanda Creek and entered his old stomping grounds. Just up the road, he passed by a state historical marker off the shoulder. Pulling over, he couldn’t help but be drawn in. Gobbling up historical tidbits was a habit he just couldn’t resist.

  He had already read this particular marker countless times, but never grew tired of it for it provided the impetus for him joining the ranks of the warrior class. It was one of his historical role models — one of the most famous Seneca Indians his nation had produced and a distant relative to his own clan. Faded yellow text set against a dark blue background told of the log cabin birthplace of Ely Parker, a Seneca Indian who volunteered in the Union Army during the Civil War. Parker had risen in rank to become General Ulysses Grant’s secretary and ultimately helped draft the surrender terms of Confederate General Robert E. Lee at the end the war in 1865. Parker was later commissioned a Brigadier General before retiring from the U.S. Army. Scorned by his tribe for joining the white man’s army, he died a controversial figure in Iroquois history.

  Jake smirked. He too had heard the same opposition from certain members of his clan upon his announcement of joining Army ROTC. One old crabby clan mother — Miss Lizzie Spiritwalker — told him never to come back. But his Uncle Joe had stood in support. Jake shook off the bitter memory and read the last sentence of the marker.

/>   Never fully appreciating it until recently, that sentence simply stated that Ely Parker was a Freemason. Jake nodded. He had read and absorbed much over the years on the subject. Freemasonry was an incredibly influential organization that had roots as far back as the Middle Ages. As the most ancient esoteric fraternity in the world, its stated goal was to make good men better in their morals, character, and pursuit of knowledge. It had even shaped the founding of the United States in its beliefs of equality, tolerance of religion, and separation of church and state. All men in the fraternity were considered brothers despite their religious or political beliefs. But brotherly love, especially in times of war, was another matter, Jake thought as he gripped the steering wheel. Just look at the outcome of the Boyd, Butler, and Brant affair. They were all Masons.

  Punching the gas pedal, he sped up Hopkins Road into the heart of the reservation. Motoring past several modest homes and harvested farmer’s fields split by copses of woods, he had a satisfied feeling that the reservation still maintained a semblance of its rural flavor.

  The feeling didn’t last long. Up past the railroad tracks he noticed a definite change for the worse. It started with the cigarette and gasoline signs along the road, each hawking low prices up ahead. Then came the first of the many makeshift gas and smoke shops — no more than trailer homes turned into mini-flea markets. They had spread like weeds since his last visit a couple of years back. Some had gas pumps installed right in their front yards while others tried to win over customers with a bit more cleanliness by actually paving their driveways. Their customers, mostly non-Indian locals from the neighboring American towns, didn’t care one way or the other. They were lined up bumper-to-bumper like crack heads seeking their weekly fix. All they were interested in was cheap tax-free gas and cigarettes — anything to beat the soaring prices in the state.

  Jake’s uncle, Joe Big Bear Tununda, his mother’s brother, also had an enterprising gas and tobacco business like these, but his was much more polished and professional. It had been the very top moneymaker on the reservation for many years and Joe was always generous in spreading the wealth to his clan.

  Uncle Joe had taken on a more important role early in Jake’s life though. Joe became his surrogate father after both of his parents died in a fiery car crash. Drunk driving was the cause. They had just won the jackpot at a Batavia bingo hall and the drinking and driving celebration afterward had cost them their lives. As tribal custom dictated, the mother’s brother would be left the children. Joe gladly accepted. He welcomed his young nephew into an already large family and raised him as his own.

  Near Bloomingdale Road, Jake pulled into the busy parking lot of a two-story wood frame building that housed Joe’s gas station, smoke shop, and grocery store on the first level. A five room family residence was on the second — Jake’s home as a youth. The complex was called Big Bear Gas, Grocery & Smokes. It was a mainstay of the reservation where everyone would come from miles around to fill up their tanks, buy cartons of tobacco products or to just catch up on the local gossip and politics. Jake parked and took a few minutes to reminisce as the people shuffled in and out of the main entrance.

  He knew early on in life that working in a business like this was one of the few options he had if he stayed on the reservation. But he could never picture himself making ten dollars an hour, becoming old and overweight and one of those miserable people who said, I wish I had done things differently.

  He instead yearned for adventure greater than the rez could offer. When he was old enough to read and learned of Ely Parker’s significance as an Army officer from the birthplace marker, Jake started asking questions of the clan elders of other warriors of the tribe. He soon found out his own Seneca Indian roots derived from some of the most courageous war captains in all of the Iroquois Confederacy. His clan members had also fought for America in her Civil War, World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, and the Persian Gulf. And through a genealogy search of his deceased father’s British roots he traced his American ancestry as far back as the War of 1812. His inner fire had been stoked. Through his self-investigative historical research young Robert Jake Tununda decided to join the path of the warrior. He wanted to prove to himself on the battlefield that he too could live up to his glorious past and in the process become a man.

  When his uncle discovered his true intentions, he gave Jake just one recommendation. He urged Jake not to go in the Army as a private — the low-level grunt at the bottom of the ladder most often used as cannon fodder. Instead, Joe pressured him to develop his leadership skills first, earn a college degree, study history, sociology, and geopolitics, and enter the service as an educated officer who would be in on the decision-making process during conflicts — one who could influence the outcomes of the battlefield and the men he would be responsible for. Jake ran with his uncle’s recommendation. It proved a wise decision. He landed a Native American scholarship and attended Cornell University, just a three-hour drive from the reservation.

  Donning his black beret head cover and checking his uniform coat, he jumped out of his SUV and walked into the crowded smoke shop. Next to a young lanky Indian clerk, there, behind the counter, as always, was his beloved Uncle Joe. A large smile appeared on his uncle’s wide, double-chinned face.

  “Jake, how are ya, son?” he said. “Billy, my new clerk here, said you called. Couldn’t believe it.” Flipping his black braided ponytail over his shoulder he rose up to greet his nephew, his hefty midsection pressing tightly against a food stained white t-shirt.

  Jake smiled warmly, taking off his beret and walking behind the counter to give him a bear hug. “It’s good to see you Big Bear.”

  “Come on, let’s go in the back room, get out of this riff-raff,” offered Joe, leading to a quiet lounge behind some curtains. “Sit down. Relax,” he continued. “Looks like you picked up some more medals since last time you stopped in. It’s been quite a while. You really should come home more often. We all miss you here.”

  “It’s been tough,” said Jake, plopping down on a well-worn sofa. “I’ve been on non-stop tours of duty. They had me in all sorts of task forces and intel ops. Didn’t get much R and R. Rest and Romance.”

  “Hey, I got your last e-mail about your new job announcement. Congratulations,” said Joe with a grin. “I don’t think you’ll be getting injured anymore now that you’re a big historian.” He walked over to the lounge’s refrigerator.

  “Other than a paper cut here and there,” replied Jake with a laugh. “I tell you what, twenty years of infantry was pure adventure but I was fried. We did one hell of a job in rebuilding countries, saving lives, and spreading democracy — good stuff I’m proud of. But a lot of sacrifice and a lot of screw-ups came with it, on top of the corruption — mostly from our own Congress. The politics were the worst part of it. Lost too many men because of political appeasement.”

  “I hear you,” sympathized Joe, leaning on the open refrigerator door.

  “I needed a new direction. Working for MHI will be a whole new adrenaline kick. Ah shit, listen, enough about me. How’s life treating you out here? Looks like you’ve got some competition knocking on the door.”

  “Same old crap, different day as they say,” replied Joe, turning around. “Those start-ups come and go. Can’t maintain themselves. They spend all their profits on booze and gambling up at the Indian casinos in Niagara Falls. They never learn. Hey, can I get ya a pop or something? Or a Snapple, I know you like that.”

  Jake nodded. “Snapple.”

  “I tell ya Jake, the damn tribal politics are becoming cut throat out here.” Joe rattled some glass bottles inside the fridge.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “We’ve got us traditionalists hotly debating the Neo-Iroquois, I call them, on whether we should get into the gambling racket like all the other nations.” Joe grabbed two iced-tea drinks. “But I’ll fight it all the way. Gambling is against the Handsome Lake Code of our religion.” He walked back to his nephew and twisted the caps off, ha
nding his nephew his drink.

  “No booze, no gambling, no bad music,” Jake mentioned. “I know the code. Well, at least I don’t gamble, right?”

  Joe smiled and gave him a cheers to seeing him again. They clicked bottles and swigged down half.

  Jake smacked his lips. “Ahhh, that hits the spot. I loved it when you sent me this stuff in Iraq.”

  Joe plopped down onto the couch beside his nephew, the cushions hissing under his weight. “So, what brings you up this way?”

  “Well, got a real nutsy story to tell you. Was wondering if you could help me out.”

  Jake went on to explain about how he was traveling through Seneca County earlier in the day when some crazy stuff started happening. Joe mentioned there had always been strange going-ons in that area. But when Jake retold the story of the trapped hunter, the shaft, the discovered Indian grave in the marsh, and the silver broach with the odd symbolism, his uncle sat in a stupor.

  Setting his drink on a table, Joe looked at his nephew. “What’s this symbol look like?”

  “Well, I’ve got a picture of it — a photograph that the investigator let me take. It’s on my laptop in the truck but I can draw it for you. It’s pretty simple.”

  Grabbing a napkin and a pen, and with his uncle peering over his shoulder, Jake drew the outline of a buck. He then scribbled the snake inside.

  Joe grabbed the napkin and tore it up in tiny pieces. He cautiously glanced around the room as if someone were watching.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked. “You see a ghost?”

  “Almost. That symbol is ancient. It’s a forbidden secret.”

  “But Joe—”

  “No, just trust me. It has significance with that hole and that gravesite. Oh Great Spirit, I wish that hunter never found it.” Joe took a deep breath and then grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  Jake watched him fumble to light a cigarette. He had never seen his uncle act this way. “That’s not the only one I found today.”