by Steve Berry
But lately she’d considered the possibility more and more. Perhaps it was just a fantasy. Everyone had them, right? Why would she be an exception? Marriage was not something she’d considered. But that was probably because no one had come along who’d offered her the possibility of long-term happiness.
She could not say that any longer.
At the moment, though, corralling this shooter was the priority. Where things led from there was anybody’s guess. But that was the great thing about an adventure.
Whether it be in life or love.
You simply never knew how it would end.
CHAPTER SIX
Cotton scampered away from the incinerator, making his way toward where he could scoot up the ridge toward the shooter. He shook off a wave of tiredness and a gritty sensation that had settled behind his eyes. Cassiopeia was doing a good job of holding the sniper’s attention, moving in the opposite direction. His sweaty clothes were stained by a cloying dampness, his nostrils filled with the waft of dry earth, reminding him of his grandfather’s farm. His mother still lived there, having inherited the three hundred acres, which continued to produce Vidalia onions. Something about low sulfur in the soil made the onions fat and sweet. The official Georgia state vegetable, in fact. It reminded him he needed to go see his mother. He hadn’t visited her in a long time and his calls of late had become less and less frequent. She never complained, that wasn’t her nature, but he thought it was probably time she met the woman he loved.
He ducked beneath the stiff arms of a weathered tree and stopped his approach. More shots rang out toward Cassiopeia. He spotted a narrow track that wound up a sharpening slope. Trees, motionless in the heat, stood perched along its flanks. He wondered about more than one assailant but, so far, that didn’t seem to be the case, as all the gunfire was concentrated from a single locale. Everything that had happened the past few hours made little sense. He’d followed the clues and found a cache of gold coins, supposedly buried sometime in the last half of the 19th century. The most logical conclusion was that someone else also had been searching for the same treasure, or maybe it was simply a case of being in the right place at the wrong time. But how could someone just happen to be near that map tree?
Unless he or she already knew about it.
No shots had echoed for a couple of minutes. So he grabbed that opportunity and hustled up the trail, staying down, moving with stealth across the loose rock and shale. He led with his gun, using the brush for cover. He felt like a sheriff from the Old West, closing in on an outlaw. This kind of pursuit was different from his usual tactics. He was more of an urban cowboy.
He stopped and allowed his eyes and ears to search for the shooter. Flies hummed all around him. Birds rustled in the nearby thatch. His nostrils still carried the scent of ferrous dust, the same stale, metallic taste remaining in his mouth. Movement came from his left, farther up the inclined path. He risked a look and spotted a litter of boulders that seemed to be providing excellent cover. Luckily he was approaching from the rear and should be able to surprise the sniper.
Another shot rang out.
Hopefully Cassiopeia was ahead of things. She knew how to handle herself and he trusted no one more than her. They’d been together long enough to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Their ups and downs seemed epic, but things now seemed good between them. For all her unpredictability she had a tenacious quality that he admired. Both of them were card-carrying loners, adept at sidestepping emotions. She lived in southern France, her education and training in history and architecture. He lived in Copenhagen, above his bookshop on Højbro Plads, in a modest apartment. He made a decent living, supplemented by an occasional foray back into his old profession. Marriage had not been discussed between them. But if it ever was, one of them was going to have quite a lifestyle change.
A shadow loomed ahead against the scatter of rocks. He fled his position in a dodging run and kept climbing, staying down, trying not to scuff his boots on the dusty track. Plenty of trees continued to offer cover, as did the underbrush. Sunlight lay everywhere, smooth as a carpet. The trail he was following seemed well worn, maybe a favorite of hikers. It led to the top of the ridge where surely there would be a wide panorama. Splashes of yellow jonquils lined the way. The buzz of a faraway airplane meshed with that of a nearby hornet. He crawled the final few feet, his fingernails filling with dirt. He found the top and safety against a thick, low, knurled branch.
To his left he caught sight of the shooter.
A dark-haired, slender female, tanned brown as a nut, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a dull-green shirt. Not more than twenty, her body hard as a whipcord. She lay on her belly, facing away, cradling a long-barreled rifle of dull metal, concentrating on the scene below, oblivious to what may be behind her.
Big mistake.
“Just stay real still,” he said to her.
The young woman froze.
“Don’t turn around, until I tell you.”
He cocked the hammer on his gun to make the point clear.
“Don’t kill me, mister.”
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to hit you. Just scare you.”
To his right he saw Cassiopeia emerge from the woods on the other side of the ridge and approach where he stood. The look on her face conveyed the same confusion he was experiencing.
“This just gets stranger and stranger,” he whispered.
She nodded in agreement.
“Let the rifle go,” he said. “Then turn around slowly. But keep those hands where I can see them.”
The young woman did as instructed, now lying on her back, facing them, with her arms held high. They stepped closer and he asked, “Did you attack me this morning, then dump me into that old incinerator?”
“I helped.”
“You’re not going to make me ask, are you?”
“My grandfather. He tracked you, then knocked you out. He and I carried you to the can.”
“Why would he do that?” Cassiopeia asked.
“It’s his job.”
He crouched down where the girl lay. “We’re federal agents. Your grandfather assaulted me and you shot at us. Those are major felonies. You want to go to jail?”
The head shook quickly back and forth, the hands still in the air.
“Then I suggest you start talking.”
“He’s the sentinel. It’s his job to protect the stash.”
“The gold coins?”
She nodded. “That’s part of it. His father and his father before that were sentinels.”
He glanced back at Cassiopeia. No question. This girl was telling the truth. Still. “Those coins have been in the ground a long time. A hundred thirty or forty years. You’re telling me people have guarded them all that time?”
“That’s what the sentinel does. I was goin’ to be next.”
“Did your grandfather tell you to shoot at us?”
“He told me to keep watch and if you got out, make sure you left real quick. I wasn’t goin’ to hurt you.”
“And what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten out?”
“I was goin’ to unlock the hatch at sundown. That long a time usually does the trick.”
“There’ve been others?” Cassiopeia asked before he could.
“Every once in a while. Mostly treasure hunters. A few hours in the can and they get real eager to leave.”
“Does your grandfather have the coins and my stuff?”
The girl nodded. “Back at the house.”
He stood and motioned for her to get up, too.
“Take us to him. Right now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
6:00 P.M.
Danny had always admired Alex Sherwood’s home, which reminded him of old Tennessee mountain lodges. Most of those were long gone, but Alex’s spacious incarnation remained with a rough brick-and-stone exterior, mixed with heavy timbers that seemed to emerge naturally from the wooded hil
lside. Its great room came with thick rugs scattered across dull wood floors, a tall ceiling, open rafters, and a fieldstone hearth large enough for several people to stand inside. Today no fire was lit, but in an Appalachian winter the room would be warm and cozy. A deck swept out from a wall of glass, dotted with a profusion of plants and ferns, high-backed rockers, a fire pit, and two swings, the view of the nearby Great Smokies like something off a postcard. Alex’s grandfather bought the land a hundred years ago for pennies on the acre. Then his father built the house when costs were equally cheap. But time had changed all that, and Blount County real estate was no longer a bargain. The many manufacturing concerns, like Alcoa, Denso, and Toyota, that now called the area home had brought both prosperity and higher property values.
A rustic scheme dominated the décor, everything oozing grace, heritage, and elegance. He knew Architectural Digest had wanted to feature the stylish interior, but Alex had nixed that idea. It’s okay to have it, his old friend liked to say, but never flaunt it.
The drive over, after leaving Taisley in Maryville, had taken half an hour, the spring rain still falling. No shortage of water existed in Blount County thanks to countless creeks, the Little Tennessee River, and a chain of man-made lakes that formed the county’s western border.
About fifty people had returned for the private gathering. He noticed that Lucius Vance and the contingent from the House of Representatives were not there. Neither were the folks from the Senate. The governor, though, had come. He was an old friend, serving as Tennessee’s secretary of state when Danny had occupied the state’s chief executive mansion. They’d fought many a political battle together, some with Alex at their side.
He eased past the knots of mourners into the nearby dining room, not seeing Diane anywhere. He stopped, mingled, and spoke to a few acquaintances. Having an ex-president around had to be a novelty, but no one seemed overly impressed. A long oak table was laid out with covered dishes that he knew had been brought from people all around. More food than anyone could eat over the next week, much less this evening. He liked the fact that he no longer carried a cadre of aides in his wake. No men with guns watched his every move. No guy followed him around with a suitcase from which a nuclear war could be started. And no reporters were hanging on his every word. Just Danny Daniels, private citizen.
He shied away from the crowd’s center of gravity. The governor ambled over and whispered, “How does it feel not to have to worry about elections anymore?”
“Not as good as you might think.” And he meant that. He kept his voice low and close. “I need to talk to Diane. Do you know where her highness might be?”
“In her office, holding court.”
He caught the sarcasm, knowing that Diane Sherwood was not on this man’s Christmas card list, either.
Rain continued to thrum the roof.
“I’ll catch you later,” he said, and walked off.
* * *
He found her in a pine-paneled rectangle that reflected the tastes of a history enthusiast, which its owner fancied herself to be. Mountain art dotted the walls, and on the tables lay local memorabilia. Diane stood in front of the far windows, facing toward the wilderness, still wearing the black dress minus the veil from the funeral. The door was open, but he knocked lightly on the jamb anyway.
She turned and motioned for him to enter. Two other woman occupied the room. They excused themselves, leaving them alone. He was uncomfortable to say the least, since he could not recall their ever having a private conversation. Their chats had always occurred at gatherings, with spouses around, like insulation between them. Strange that he felt that way, considering how he and Alex were so close. But Pauline had never much cared for Diane, either.
“And to what do I owe this honor, Mr. President?” she said.
A miniature poodle rose from a corner bed and tried to get Diane’s attention, then quickly scuttled in a cloud of cluck-clucks to the hollow beneath a nearby chair.
“You invited me,” he said.
“I didn’t think you would come.”
“My friend died.”
Her eyes bore into him. “Yes, he did.”
He got the message. Get to the point. “I’d like to ask you something. Are you satisfied with the official conclusions regarding Alex’s death?”
A curious look came to her bluish eyes. “You’re not?”
“That’s not an answer.”
She sauntered away from the rain-smeared windows. “I suppose it’s not. But that’s an odd thing to ask a widow on the day she buries her husband.”
“It’s a simple question, one you seem to be having trouble answering.”
She now tossed him a frosty glare. “Alex so admired you. To the point of it being sickening. You do know that I always thought you a fool.”
A pulse of anger swept through him, but he’d learned long ago not to chase smelly bait like that. “I’ve been called worse.”
She chuckled without any humor. “I’m sure you have. But twice I did not vote for you.”
His spine stiffened in a familiar feeling of confrontation. “I don’t really give a crap what you think of me. I just want to know if you have any doubts about Alex’s death?”
She shrugged. “He fell off a cliff into a river and drowned. There’s little to question. No one was there. Nothing points to anything suspicious. This has been all over the news for the past week. If someone knew or saw something he or she would have come forward by now.”
All valid points, so he shifted gears. “I heard that Alex might not have run again in two years, when his term ended. Was that true?”
She nodded. “We talked about doing some traveling. Enjoying ourselves. I think he was looking forward to retirement.”
That’s not what Taisley had said. “Then I assume everything was good between you two?”
Curiosity filled her face. “Why would it not be?”
He decided to drop the pretense. “I was just wondering if perhaps he might have finally tired of your bubbling personality.”
She stepped toward an oak desk that sat catty-corner before one of the room’s exterior corners, more blurry windows on either side. “Since it’s just you and me here, and you seem to be speaking frankly, may I join you?”
“Absolutely.”
“My husband loved me and I loved him. We’ve been married a long time and planned to stay that way. Contrary, I might add, to your own marriage, which Alex told me is over.”
“Why is my marriage of interest to you?”
“The more relevant question is why mine interests you. As I recall, you never cared much about what I might want.”
He knew what she was referring to. A sort of breaking point between them. It happened two years into his first term when a vacancy came to the Supreme Court. She’d wanted Alex to have the appointment and sent a personal note to the White House making the request, which he’d shown to his old friend.
“I know all about this. She’s dead set on it,” Alex said to him, handing back the note.
“And you?”
“You know how I feel about judges in their robes. Just a bunch of turkey buzzards. I don’t care to be one.”
He smiled at his friend’s judicial cynicism, which mimicked his own. “What about what your wife wants?”
“She’ll get over it.”
“You do know that Alex had no desire to be a Supreme Court justice.”
“Alex had little idea what he desired. He relied on me to make those choices for him.”
He heard the change in timbre of her voice, from grief to challenge, and wondered about the observation. Alex Sherwood might have been too nice, but he wasn’t weak. He did, though, have a soft spot for this woman, one they rarely discussed since the last thing you ever wanted to do was criticize another man’s wife.
“None of that matters anymore,” she said. “Alex is gone. I’m a widow. You’re an ex-president. Politics is over. It’s time for us both to fade away.”
H
er personal insults didn’t matter, but the jab about him being irrelevant did get to him. So he decided to do a little irritating of his own. “How good was it between you and Alex? I heard you’ve been scarce in DC for a long time.”
“I didn’t realize I was so high on your list of interests.”
“You weren’t, until your husband suddenly died.”
She caught the accusation, and he was trying hard not to be confrontational, but this woman had a way of bringing out the worst in him. He’d wondered many times why a good, decent Tennessee mountain man like Alex Sherwood would have married a shrew like this. For money? Hardly. Her family had next to nothing. Influence? None existed. Personality? Not unless you preferred the surly type. Possibly looks. She offered a neatly carved profile with a short, fine nose, high curved cheeks, and an angled chin. Her complexion carried the clear, flawless hue of someone who definitely lived in clean air. Tendrils of thick red-brown hair brushed ever so slightly at the base of a slender neck. She was definitely a looker. Alex had been insufferably handsome, too, the sort of appearance few women aged well against. Yet Diane had held her own. Maybe it had been her confidence? She’d always cast the assurance of a movie star, and she was no dummy. He knew she held a master’s degree in American history.
“I do have interests, apart from my husband’s,” she said. “I serve on several boards, the Smithsonian Libraries Advisory Board being one of those. Those took me away a lot. So it was hard to get to DC. Alex understood. He even encouraged me to do them.”
Considering the presence of Taisley, that was the first thing he’d heard that made sense.
“I haven’t been to Washington in several months,” she said. “Contrary to your conclusion that I’ve been scarce, I go at least twice a year for the Smithsonian board meetings. I’m going tomorrow to see about his apartment. It’s a task I’m not looking forward to.”
Her face seemed as tight and stiff as a mask. He’d been trying to gauge her replies, wondering the whole time why he was even doing this. The last thing he wanted to do was reveal anything of another woman. Nothing about that would be positive. Especially for Alex. So maybe he should just excuse himself and leave. He was about to do that when he noticed something on the floor, beneath the windows, behind the desk. Two cloth tote bags full of books. He caught the odd title of the top volume in the left bag.
