by K. L. Nelson
Lindsay put herself in charge of procuring accommodations for the entire team to attend the funeral in Australia. They all wanted to personally thank Mr. and Mrs. McAlister for raising such a wonderful daughter. They wanted them to know the impact she had on them.
The professor’s parents were beside themselves with grief, but the funeral was uneventful. Except, that is, until Mert walked into the ladies room after the service.
“What are you doing?” Lindsay exclaimed. “Get out of here!”
“You’re going to want to hear this,” Mert replied in a hushed tone.
Lindsay sighed. Mert always got a certain look when he was about to lay out another conspiracy theory. “Now is not the time, Mert.”
“The professor is not dead,” Mert said flatly.
Lindsay grew impatient. “You are the most inappropriate person I have ever met. If you are going to embarrass yourself please leave me out of it.”
“I can prove it,” Mert said. “Wait here…” He exited the ladies room and returned twenty seconds later with a reluctant Damien in tow.
“I’ve already seen girls,” Damien protested as Mert dragged him in.
“What caliber was the sniper rifle that hit Emmett the night of the sting?” Mert asked quickly.
“7.62 NATO. Why?” Damien replied looking from Mert to Lindsay. The girl was folding her arms, barely enduring this.
“Correct,” Mert continued. “The Pact uses a 7.62 full metal jacket sniper bullet. The report said the professor died from a gunshot wound to the chest.”
“Yeah, so?” Damien replied.
“So the entry and exit wounds from a 7.62 FMJ round could easily be sewn up and covered for the funeral. Why is the casket closed?”
Damien looked at Mert and then Lindsay. He slowly replied, “Because the professor isn’t in it…”
Mert went on. “Have you guys noticed Emmett?”
“Yeah,” Lindsay replied. “He’s torn up.”
“Yes he does seem that way, because that’s how we expect him to be. But have you noticed any tears?”
Lindsay put her foot down. “Mert you are not to go near Emmett, do you understand?”
“Fine,” Mert replied. “But promise me you’ll just watch him. If he can produce one tear today I’ll admit I’m wrong.”
The three left the ladies room together. On their way out they passed the chapel organist, a stately woman of seventy-five years. “Kids these days…” she commented with a scoff.
Emmett did not shed one tear the whole day.
Buccaneer Ruins
Five days earlier
Emmett climbed into the back of the ambulance with the gurney. When the doors were closed, he unzipped the body bag. Agent Angela Somers sat up with great difficulty. She would be sore for many days.
“You’ll do anything for paid leave,” Emmett quipped.
“I’m starting to wonder if it was worth it,” she replied with a moan as the medic helped her unfasten her body armor.
“You’ll need to take it easy for a while,” the medic said. “How do you feel?”
“Like I just got ran over by a freight train,” Angela replied.
“You won’t keep this one down for long,” Emmett told the medic. “She’ll probably be back in the boxing ring tomorrow.”
“I think my boxing days are over for a while,” Angela groaned lying back down. “Don’t worry, though. Give me a little time and I’ll be knocking you to the mat just like last time.”
“That was a lucky shot,” Emmett replied.
Weeks before when the professor was kidnapped, Angela stepped forward with the plan to fake her death. Angela was perfect for the job. She was the same height and build as the professor. With a little red tint in her hair and some sun glasses it would be difficult to tell them apart at a distance.
Angela knew the risk. Dax would not have asked her to do it, but it was the best plan they had to protect the professor.
Skye was against the plan from the start. “Don’t do this,” she told the agent. “What if they go for a head shot?”
Angela put her hand on the professor’s shoulder. “We’ve done the homework on this. Taking a head shot at that distance with the weapon they use would be too risky for them. They’ll be gunning for the vitals. My body armor is more than adequate. I’ll be fine.”
“Then let me do it,” Skye said.
“Professor, you know that’s out of the question,” Angela replied. “I knew what I was doing when I signed on for this. We take risks every day so people like you can be free to do what you do. Some people dig for artifacts; others get shot at. The world needs both of us.”
Skye didn’t like it. She would feel terrible if Angela got hurt or killed taking a bullet for her. But she knew the agent was right. When Skye looked at Angela and the other agents, the word she thought of was hero. How else would you describe someone who risks their life to give others a better one? And Angela was one of the best. Everything about her told Skye she was not one to be taken lightly. Skye knew she could handle herself in a fight. She was in every way the equal to the men on the team, in some ways their better. And the men knew it.
It seemed to Skye that Angela not only accepted the risk involved in her job, she thrived on it. The professor suspected that what motivated Angela was the need to make things right; the desire to make a difference. Some people step forward to do the job no one else will, simply because it’s the right thing to do.
Skye thought about the night when Emmett asked her to consider a job at the FBI. At the time it seemed laughable. Her dream since childhood was to become the greatest archaeologist the world had ever seen. Old things have always captivated her. She wished she could be a fly on the wall of an ancient peasant’s hut or a great Viking hall. What did the ancients think about? How did they view the world? The written record tells only a finite part of the story. To unlock the rest of it has always been Skye’s passion.
But that night at the Moonfish, Emmett uncovered a part of her she’d never realized was there. She would not have considered how much she wanted to see The Pact go down if Emmett hadn’t said it. How many innocent people have suffered from the impact they’ve had on the economy of the world? How many people have they robbed blind? Truly corruption reaches its greedy fingers into every pocket. And somehow they’ve been acting with impunity for centuries. It made Skye’s blood boil.
And she could do something about it. There was something on that stone that was going to cause real problems for The Pact. It wasn’t just the way The Pact was acting. She could feel it. Somehow Skye knew when a discovery was going to make an impact on the world. She was getting that feeling about the Marnoch Stone, but this time something was different. She just had a feeling the Marnoch Stone was going to change the world in a way no one could expect. But for that to happen she needed the whole Marnoch Stone.
After her fake death was accomplished, Skye realized they’d been doing things all wrong.
“I’m angry,” she told Emmett as they sat at the field office conference table one day.
“Oh?” Emmett replied, a little surprised.
“Yes. Angela risked her life for me, and all the while we have been going after the third fragment with shovels. Now I can’t even do that.” She had to stay out of sight now that she was dead. “Maybe we’ve been using the wrong tool.” She showed Emmett the website for a heavy equipment company in the area. There was a picture of a massive excavator with an attachment that pulls trees up like weeds.
“Impressive,” Emmett said as he looked at the huge machine.
“Normally archaeologists don’t reach for equipment like this,” she said. “But this situation is different. The stone fragment is likely entangled in the roots of that tree. We could dig until spring and not reach it. But ironically, the thing that is preventing us from getting the stone could be the very thing that will deliver it into our hands. If we pull that tree out of the ground, I believe we will find the stone well-protected
in the exposed roots.”
“The Historical Society will rake you over the coals,” Emmett observed. “They won’t let that thing within a mile of the ruins.”
“Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Skye replied, “if they knew about it.”
The pair smiled at each other. Skye was excited to finally get her hands on the last fragment.
Emmett just wanted to play with a big tractor.
***
Skye’s hair was dyed black and shorter now. She was disguised as a construction worker in case The Pact was around. She and Emmett watched the giant machine slowly track its way up the valley toward the Buccaneer Ruins. Skye was paying the operator of the massive excavator double time to work on a Saturday when all the government offices were closed. She was glad to do it, especially since the contractor had a reputation for keeping things quiet when needed. No permits? No problem.
The excavator moved in close to the tree, extended its boom and wrapped its huge hydraulic claw around the base of the tree. With unthinkable force, the machine lifted the tree out of the ground and held it ten feet above its gaping hole in the earth. Roots dangled underneath the tree, and great clods of mud fell at random.
“Hold it there, Ian,” Skye called to the operator.
Ian shut off the excavator and climbed out. He loved to admire his work. The three stood looking at the impressive sight. Once again man had conquered nature.
But what was even more impressive to Skye and Emmett was what they saw entangled in the root system of the tree. The professor had been right. They had found the last fragment of the Marnoch Stone.
Skye turned to Emmett. “Sometimes,” she said, “you just need a really big tractor.”
Chapter Seventeen
FBI Safe House
Falls Church, Virginia
February 12
Professor Skye McAlister turned on the basement light and descended the stairs to her study. The ambience was more like a cave than a study, but the professor prized function over form. She had supplied the room with everything needed to complete her study of the Marnoch Stone. A work bench along one wall held her tools and materials. It was where she’d mixed the epoxy to join the fragments together in a permanent bond that was stronger than the stone itself. Another wall held research materials and charts. In a corner of the room was her desk. A powerful internet connection fed her portal, and she made use of three large monitors. The remaining side of the room was a large door through which the fragments were brought in. And in the middle of the room was a heavy wooden table built to the exact size of the Marnoch Stone. The repaired stone lay on the table underneath direct lighting, the focal point of the room. Skye missed the resources at the university, but this basement was a close second to her Steinbridge study. If she had to be in hiding, this was the way to do it.
The professor had been studying the stone for weeks now. It was enough time to render much of the translation of the Pict language. She spent a lot of time examining photographs of other Pictish stones. Being able to read what was carved on them brought the stones to life. One stone discovered years earlier contained a narration of a great king. Another one was a law code. Still another contained an epic tale of tragedy. Skye had already written hundreds of pages from her studies. She wished she could publish them. But for now, the world would have to wait until the investigation was concluded. It was one more reason The Pact had to be stopped.
Skye turned on the overhead lighting and stared at the Marnoch Stone. “What is it about you?” she said with a sigh. She looked at the stone like an old friend. She’d spent enough time with it in the last few months to become well acquainted. The translation of the Pict language was truly fulfilling to her. She laughed as she realized she knew this stone better than she knew many of her friends.
But she couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something else it wanted to tell her. It was different than any other Pictish stone. It was so much more sophisticated in its content. The characters were smaller and more precise. There were slight undulations throughout the text that Skye couldn’t explain. They weren’t characters or marks of any kind, just different heights and angles at which the characters were carved. Originally she had thought that the engraver had simply made mistakes and chiseled away to start over. But these undulations appeared throughout the text almost uniformly. She thought it might be aesthetic, some kind of artistic style. If it were, she’d never seen anything like it in an ancient text.
Because it’s not aesthetic. Suddenly the professor realized there was a reason for the undulations. She turned off the overhead light and repositioned her workbench light to face the stone from the side. Some of the characters stood out in the side lighting, and others were completely obscured in shadow. She grabbed a pencil and started writing furiously. For some thirty minutes she studied the text lit from the side until she understood the message. Then she repositioned the light from the other side to find a completely different message. Lit from the top was another message, and from the bottom yet another. Skye’s heart raced as she read the messages back to herself after hours of compiling the data.
She dropped the pencil and stepped back from the stone in horror.
“Emmett is going to want to see this,” she whispered.
***
“What is it?” Emmett asked as Skye opened the front door. If Skye was calling in the middle of the night, it must be earth-shattering.
“Come look,” she said, leading him to the basement.
Emmett followed Skye down the stairs and stood with her before the Marnoch Stone.
“What do you see?” Skye asked.
Emmett gave her a funny look. “Trick question?” he asked.
“Not at all,” the professor replied. “I want you to tell me what you see.”
“Okay, I see the Marnoch Stone.”
Skye reached over to the workbench and turned off the main lighting in the room. Only one light from the right side of the stone was shining on it. “Now what do you see?” she asked.
Emmett looked at the stone and then at Skye. He leaned over to examine the stone closely. “Some of the characters stand out when lit from the side,” he said running his hand over the stone to feel the contour.
“Yes. Now stand back and look.” Skye had set up four lights in the room, one shining on the stone from each direction. All she had to do was flip the switches to change the lighting. Skye turned off the right side light and turned on the left.
“Different characters are lit,” Emmett observed.
Skye went through the other two lights and showed Emmett how the content of the text changes with the direction of the light. “There’s a different message depending on the lighting,” he observed, astounded.
“Correct,” the professor said. She returned the room to full lighting.
Emmett looked over at Skye’s workspace. It was littered with papers containing drawings, diagrams and page upon page of handwritten notes. “How long have you been at this?” he asked.
“Never mind that,” the professor replied holding up her hand. “Now bear with me. When assembled in the correct order, the four messages from the different light angles make one message.”
“What’s the message?” Emmett asked.
“I’ll read it to you in a moment,” Skye replied, “but first let me say that this stone is not as old as we thought.”
“What do you mean? How do you know that?”
“Emmett, how much do you know about medieval history?”
“I can hold my own.”
“Ever notice how someone’s always on top? European power was held by a few elites through the Middle Ages, but there was always one that seemed to rise above the others: the Habsburgs, the Merovingians, the Carolingians. Why are these the names we read in history books?”
“Maybe they knew how to form alliances,” Emmett offered.
“It would seem,” the professor replied, “but does that mean the other nobles didn’t? How did they get to
be nobles?”
“Ok, so maybe they got lucky.”
“Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe there was something else going on.” Skye thought of a parallel. “Emmett, what do you do when you’re trying to solve a case and things just don’t add up?”
“Follow the money,” the agent replied.
“Precisely. Money makes things happen. In politics, for instance, when you follow the money suddenly everything makes sense. Pork bills get passed, criminals get pardoned, corruption goes unprosecuted. Politicians run on a platform that they promptly and blatantly change as soon as the election is over. So why would politics in the Middle Ages be any different?”
“So these powerful emperors bought their way to the top?”
“Not exactly. When the Lombards threatened Rome in the eighth century, Charlemagne went to the aid of the pope. In return, the pope granted him the title of patrician. In the ancient world the patriciate was a privileged class, separate from the nobility. The term comes out of classical Rome, where it denoted a special class of families who held political power in the city and national governments. There were some political functions that only patricians could perform. In medieval Europe, the title endured. It came to be associated with the moneyed merchant class. The Hanseatic League is an example.”
“The movers and shakers of the Middle Ages,” Emmett observed.
“Yes, but not just any movers and shakers. It was an elite group that you had to be born into. In some cases an outsider family of substance could be admitted into the ranks. It was not easy; the patricians would have been delegitimized if membership was open to anyone. But there were instances where an individual was able to gain entrance because of wealth and influence, perhaps though marriage to a patrician’s daughter.”
