by Steve Berry
Like Frank Breckinridge.
In 1973 her father had wanted to find the gold, believing its time had come. Back then there’d been no Internet, no twenty-four-hour news, no social media. So it had been easy for two academics to battle it out with each other. Today their fight would have been fodder for too many websites to count. Nothing seemed private anymore. But it all ended when Frank Breckinridge secreted away both the Trail and Heart Stones.
One had finally resurfaced.
Now it was up to Grant to locate the other.
The apartment’s lingering quiet had turned into an ominous, brooding silence, and she found herself listening to sounds she might normally ignore. The creak of a floor, a pipe groaning, the low murmur of a far-off television. This was Alex’s space, and she felt like the walls were judging her. If so, then they’d just been party to a shocking scene between her and Grant. Taking him here, in Alex’s bed, had been important to her. A statement of defiance she hadn’t been able to express while he lived.
She felt caged and restless, so she paced, trying to squeeze the anticipation from her mind. She could still hear the bedsprings creaking from their lovemaking, and felt some shame and embarrassment, along with joy and release. Interesting how such polar opposites could coexist inside her.
“You were the hypocrite,” she whispered to Alex.
She was still shocked by Grant’s killing of Martin Thomas, but had kept her objections to herself. Kenneth might be right. Grant could be reckless. Thankfully, self-doubt was not part of Grant’s makeup, so it probably had to be done. And he was right, too. If a way existed to link her to any of it, the calls would have already come her way.
But nothing had happened.
Things were moving along in the right direction and a weight seemed to be lifting from her shoulders. So she’d keep all of what Grant had told her to herself.
Neither her brother nor Vance would ever know.
Along with one other thing.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Cassiopeia drove with Lea toward the mine.
“These knights are bad people,” Lea said. “I never realized how bad. I’m ashamed that some of the local men are even part of it.”
“Tell me about that.”
“They meet every once in a while. I just considered it like some kind of club, a chance to get together, drink beer, tell stories to one another. Grandpa went a few times. Once was when I went up to the mine with that special friend I told you about.”
“Your grandfather tell you anything about the local group?”
She shook her head. “He’s real good at keeping secrets. You do know that he only talked to you and Mr. Malone because he didn’t want me to go to jail for shootin’ at you.”
“I get that.”
“He went with those men to keep them away from me. I should have shot ’em. But my rifle was here in the truck.”
“What about your grandfather’s rifle?”
“Those two men got it away from him.”
She heard the deep regret in the girl’s voice.
The time was approaching midday, the sun high and bright, so getting close to the mine without being seen could prove a problem.
“Is there another way besides the road we took last night?”
Lea nodded. “But it’ll take a few extra minutes.”
Which gave her more time to think. Earlier, she’d noticed something behind them, on the truck’s rear bench.
A longbow and arrows.
“Do you use that bow in the back to hunt?” she asked Lea.
“I’ve been tryin’. But I’m not the best shot.”
She, on the other hand, loved the bow and arrow. Her father had taught her how to use one as a child and she’d kept up her proficiency. At her estate she’d installed archery targets, and her bow collection was impressive.
Lea motioned and they left the highway, driving down an unfamiliar dirt road, deeper into the woods, finally parking in a small clearing.
“We’re about half a mile north of the mine. Coming at it from opposite the road you took last night. We can hike up through that pass.”
“This is as far as you go,” she made clear.
“I’m coming,” Lea said.
“No, you’re not. This is no game, Lea. You saw that when we were here before. They wanted us both dead. We got lucky then. Your grandfather sacrificed himself to keep you out of harm’s way. Don’t make that for nothing. I have a better chance of doing this alone.”
She still carried the gun, but retrieved the bow and arrows from the truck. “I’m going to borrow this.”
“I should go with you,” Lea said.
“Do you want me to get your grandfather out of there alive?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then let me do my job. What you can do is this. It’s nearly 4:00 P.M. If I’m not back in two hours, go to the sheriff’s department for help and have them notify the U.S. Justice Department.”
* * *
She pushed through the trees and underbrush, no real trail defining the way. The path ahead cut a swath between two forested mounds. Lea had told her that the mine sat on the opposite side of the outcropping to her left. She crossed a ridgeline and the familiar decaying buildings of the mine came into view below. Bending over, she moved along the slope, using the brush for cover, then eased between two boulders, which offered not only protection but also a clear line of sight.
A large paneled truck sat parked, the double doors to its cargo bed swung open. Two men were loading the gold bars inside. She counted three other men standing outside the collapsed structures, only one face she recognized. Proctor. Morse was nowhere to be seen. Discussion seemed to ensue, then something wrapped in towels was transferred from a nearby pickup to the inside of the paneled truck. Had to be the Witch’s Stone. Then two of the men left, climbing into the pickup and driving away.
That left Proctor and the other two.
The bow she carried was a little over a meter long, a practical combination of wood, fiberglass, and magnesium. Light, not even two kilos. She’d tested its pressure: Tight, with solid resistance. At full draw, maybe thirty-five kilos of firing pressure. Enough to take down a bear. The arrows were likewise high quality, made of aluminum.
She unlimbered the bow, nocked one of the arrows, and drew back for a three-quarter pull. Anything more and the arrow would go straight through. Her aim was made trickier thanks to the boulders on either side. But she imagined herself inside her castle, high in the ramparts before one of the arrow perches. She lined up the peep sight on Proctor, the fletching just grazing her right cheek, and drew a long breath. Pursing her lips, she allowed the air in her lungs to sift slowly out.
One of the men closed the double doors on the paneled truck.
She relaxed the bow.
They were leaving?
Not good.
Proctor suddenly disappeared into the collapsed building, now out of the line of fire. The two men followed. She needed to know where that gold was headed, and one glance at her wrist gave her an idea about killing two birds with one stone.
She fled her perch and carefully bumped down the rocky slope, slinging the bow across her back. She found the ground and halted her approach beside the trunk of a thick tree.
All quiet.
A flock of pigeons appeared overhead, banked sharply, then flew away.
She made her way to the front of the truck.
None of the men were around. Ahead, through the ruin, was the same path she and Lea had taken into the mine.
The hum of a generator could be heard.
On her wrist was a Magellan Billet–issued watch, similar to the one Cotton wore. Both contained GPS trackers that worked off a special app that she’d used yesterday to track Cotton.
Now it would tag the truck.
She removed the watch and crept her way back to the double doors, which were closed, slightly ajar, not yet locked into place. Cracking one open she slid the watch inside,
along the metal bed, toward the front, past the gold bars, which rested stacked beneath the black tarp.
Noise from behind signaled that someone was coming.
She found refuge behind a pile of rubble.
Two men appeared.
She watched as they closed and locked the double doors, then climbed into the cab and drove off.
She waited until the truck was out of sight, then laid the bow and arrow aside, found her gun, and headed into the mine.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Cotton found where Frank Breckinridge lived, a small cube of a house in a quiet Virginia neighborhood. The kind of place where people existed their whole lives. The house itself was wood-framed, painted white, with a big porch and square-paned windows. Rick Stamm had told him a little about Breckinridge, who defined the job of Castle curator. Before Breckinridge the responsibility for the building’s preservation had been scattered across several people, a hit-or-miss proposition, and not all that efficient. Now one person ran the show.
He parked on the street.
Stamm had provided the keys to his personal vehicle. They’d talked about Stamm coming along, but Cotton thought he’d have better success alone. He followed a weather-stained brick walk to the front porch, rubbing his weary face. He’d caught a couple of hours of sleep on the flight east from Arkansas, but had rested poorly.
The front door was open, a screen door keeping out any creatures. He knocked three times on the jamb before he finally heard footsteps headed his way. The face that greeted him from behind the gauzy screen was creased and narrow, with a beak of a nose that overshadowed a thin, straight mouth. Silver hair hung shaggy and uncut, more than two days’ worth of stubble on the chin.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“My name is Cotton Malone. I’ve come to speak with you about the Smithsonian.”
“Cotton Adams? Captain, is that really you?”
The connection caught him by surprise. But the tone and excitement he saw on the old man’s face told him that there were reality problems. Dementia? Maybe. Or worse. So why not play along?
“Yes, sir. It’s me. Captain Adams.”
The door creaked open.
“Come in. You shouldn’t be out there in the open. There are Federal eyes and ears everywhere here in the capital.”
He stepped inside and Breckinridge poked his head out, listening, waiting for something.
“It seems okay,” the old man said. “I think you made it without being followed.”
He was unsure where the old man’s mind had settled and was a little perturbed that no one had mentioned any impairment—maybe Weston had not known—which called into question whether he should waste any more time. But he decided to give it a few minutes.
“Come in,” Breckinridge said, motioning with a bony hand and stepping across the squeaky floorboards.
He followed his host into a small den.
“Sit down, Captain. Please. Take a load off your feet. I’m sure you’re tired from the journey.”
“I did travel a long way.”
“From Richmond?”
“That’s right.”
The old man eased himself into an upholstered recliner. Cotton chose another chair. He’d expected a musty, olden waft. But everything was surprisingly clean and tidy. So he asked, “Do you live here alone?”
“No, my wife’s around here somewhere. Julie. Julie. We have a visitor. Make some coffee.”
Stamm had told him that Breckinridge’s wife died years ago, not long after he retired. There was one child. A boy. Grown by now, and Stamm knew nothing about him.
“Is your son around?” he asked.
“Gosh, no. He’s off teaching somewhere. Left this house long before the war. Tell me, Captain. How is the fight going out there? We get told only what the Yankee newspapers want us to hear.”
His dilemma rose. The answer to the question depended on timing. If Breckinridge was living prior to early 1863, the South was doing okay. Winning battles, driving hard north and west. But all that changed with Gettysburg and Vicksburg. Those defeats doomed the Confederacy.
He decided on a middle ground. “We’re making good progress. Things are working out.”
“I want to know. Is it true about your name? Did you really hide in a mattress, beneath a sick man, to escape the Yankees?”
“I did. It seemed the only way, and it worked.”
Breckinridge laughed. “Damn ingenious. Well done. We need more cleverness like that. So what brings you back to the capital. Are you on another assignment?”
He nodded. “We have a problem and need your help. Do you remember the Heart Stone?”
The narrow head nodded. “Oh, yes. Definitely. I saved it, you know.”
“I do know. That’s why I’m here. We need its location.”
“Who’s we?”
“President Davis sent me.”
He was hoping that lie would add importance.
But Breckinridge spat on the floor.
“Damn fool. That’s what he is. He’s going to cost us everything. The man worries about stupid details and won’t delegate a thing. The people loathe him and why he fights with the state governors I’ll never know. That’s just asking for trouble.”
Interesting how the sick mind remained sharp for detail, since everything he’d just heard was historical fact. “You keep up with things.”
“I hear stuff. There are spies, like you, all around us here. I want to know, did Joseph Henry send you my way?”
He nodded and said, “The secretary said you knew everything.”
“Did you give him the key?”
The ceremonial key? He’d have to wing it. “I did.”
“You were there when the Castle burned, weren’t you? What was it like?”
The man’s knowledge was impressive. “Quite a sight, and sad, too.”
“I bet it was. But it worked to your advantage. You did good, Captain. And your journal is safe. I hid it away, too.”
He recalled what he’d been told about Angus Adams’ involvement in the 1854 southwest expedition and what Weston said about the journal.
Gone for a long time.
“Between you and me,” Breckinridge said, “I don’t trust the people over there in the Smithsonian Castle. I think the Federals are onto them.”
He decided to push. “President Davis wants my journal, too.”
The oily eyes narrowed. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t.”
The old man chuckled. “You’re a sly one, Captain.” Then a gleam filled the eyes. “Are you up for a little test?”
Not really, but he had no choice. “Fire away.”
“Name the stones.”
That he could answer. “Witch’s, Horse, Trail, Heart, and Alpha.”
“Damn good, Captain. Will you be wanting to see the knights’ commander while you’re here?”
Something new. The commander? “Definitely.”
“I can arrange a meeting. Good and private, not to worry.”
“Where could that be arranged?”
“In that damn Temple of Justice of his. He rarely leaves it, anyway.” The older man sat forward. “Between you and me, Captain, I don’t trust the commander. He says he’s one of us, but I’m not sure. That hair around his bald head makes him look too much like a priest to me. We have to be careful. Real careful. Let’s face reality, the war is lost. We both know it. There was no need for the whole damn thing in the first place. We could have done this another way. Hell, the South had the Supreme Court. Look at Dred Scott, they ruled 100 percent for us. Slaves aren’t people. They’re property. Even Lincoln told us, when they swore him in the first time, that we could keep slavery. Just leave the Union intact. But no. Hotheads and fools wanted war.”
“Was there another way?” he decided to ask.
Breckinridge pointed a finger. “You’re damn right there was, and if that moron Jeff Davis had listened we could have done things within the
law. But no one would listen. Jeff Davis shows too much favoritism toward his friends. He can’t get along with people who disagree with him, and he doesn’t know beans about leading an army. It pains me to say, but Lincoln is a much better war leader.”
All facts, too.
“The fight is about over,” Breckinridge said. “When that happens, it’ll be up to us to keep things going, but I doubt the commander’s dedication. Like I said, I don’t trust him.”
All of which was irrelevant, so he decided to stick with urgency. “Everything you’ve said is true, and it’s why I’m here. The war is lost. But before it’s too late, I have to locate the Heart Stone and my journal.”
* * *
Grant made his way toward the back of his father’s house. On approach he’d seen a car nestled at the curb. Nothing unusual. A lot of people in the neighborhood left cars on the street. What piqued his interest was the Smithsonian permit affixed to the windshield. So he’d rounded the block, parked, then hustled back, finding the narrow alley that ran between his father’s house and a neighbor.
He crept up the stoop.
* * *
Cotton waited for Breckinridge to answer him.
“The Heart Stone is safe, and has been for a long time. So is your journal. I personally handled both. There were problems, you know. People wanted to use them to find the vault. Federals after our gold, but I stopped ’em. You can tell Jeff Davis he has nothing to worry about.”
“I need details. That’s why I’m here.”
The old man sat ramrod-straight, elbows on the armrests, as if waiting for the executioner to switch on the electricity.
“Why does Jeff Davis care?”
“It’s not for me to question my president.”
“Why not? Davis had the five stones made, then ordered them hidden away. The whole crazy thing was his idea.”
“Now he wants them back.”
Another finger was pointed his way. “You lie, Captain.”
He wondered how much this old man’s sick brain knew about Angus Adams. Enough, apparently, to connect Cotton to the surname. Warren Weston certainly knew a lot, too. Perhaps they’d both learned from the same source.
The Smithsonian archives.
