The man behind the counter inside was an older fellow with a six-day-old scruff of gray on his face. Even if the geezer tried anything, it wouldn’t do much good. Still, better to be careful than stupid. They’d been caught completely off guard by Sean Wyatt earlier. And apparently, he’d brought help. That could not be allowed to happen again.
He glanced around again, still paranoid after the gunfight on the mountain. There was no way that Sean Wyatt knew which direction they were headed at the moment. But if Wyatt had been able to find them before, it was possible the man could do it again.
Jens Ulrich hadn’t checked in with the old man for a while now. With normal clients, something like that would not be a problem, but the old man was known to be intolerably impatient. A great deal of money and resources had been invested in this operation, and results were expected more quickly than was reasonable.
Now was as good a time as any, he thought, and pulled the phone out of his pants pocket to make the call. It only rang twice before the voice of the older man on the other end answered with a curt, “What is our status?”
Ulrich imagined the mysterious man sitting in his giant leather chair at his oversized desk, staring at the phone, waiting for the call.
“We are making progress, sir. Schultz is far cleverer than we anticipated.” His answer was as direct as the question. “Our next destination is a place called Red Clay State Park about twenty miles from the city of Chattanooga.”
“I have heard of it.”
Ulrich was a little surprised by this statement. “You know about this place?”
The older man replied as if he were talking to a child, “Of course. It was the location of the capital of the Cherokee Nation for hundreds of years up until the relocation began in the late 1830s. Their people believed it to be a sacred land, full of mysterious power. They thought that the ancient dead inhabited the forests surrounding the area and that those spirits would protect them.”
“Schultz believes we will find something there that will point the way to the first chamber,” Ulrich added.
“Was he specific about what it was that might be found there?”
“No. Only that the area was where we should be able to find the next piece of the puzzle.”
“Is he being cooperative?”
“Yes, for the moment. He has not given us any trouble. We should be to the next location in a half hour or so.” Ulrich waited a few seconds, trying to decide on whether or not he should tell his employer about the shootout that had occurred earlier.
Before he could begin again, the Prophet cut in. “I have some concerns, Jens.”
This was an unexpected statement. “Such as?”
“Your methods are getting sloppy,” remarked the voice coldly.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“First, the professor. Then the two police? There are too many body bags lying in your wake. I must encourage you to be more discreet.”
Ulrich clenched his teeth in an effort to control his emotions. “I do what I deem necessary to complete the mission, sir.”
“Understood. Just make sure you do complete it.” Then he added, “But it cannot be done in a way that will draw attention to our purpose or to me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.” There would be no telling the man on the phone about what had happened earlier that morning.
“One last thing, Ulrich,” the voice in the earpiece interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes,” he replied, irritated.
“A body was found near a church yesterday. From the description in the police report, it sounded like one of your operatives. Should I assume that was your doing?”
The question was an insult. He knew the police would find the incompetent assistant he’d shot the day before and didn’t care. The man had no identification that could be connected to anyone in the operation.
Ulrich took pride in being very good at what he did. Now this ignorant man had the gall to insinuate he was incapable. “I assure you, sir, the situation is completely under control. Will there be anything else?” His tone was sarcastic.
“No. But do not fail me, Jens. If at any time I need to bring in someone else, I will not hesitate.”
With that, the call was disconnected.
Foolish old man, he thought. The wealthy always felt that with money came power. They push people around like pawns on a chessboard. “I am no pawn,” he said quietly as he slid the phone back into his pocket.
Jens peered down the road against the glare of the sun and adjusted his sunglass on his face. An eighteen-wheeler rumbled by. “You will see, old man. I am no one‘s pawn.”
Chapter 40
Blue Ridge Mountains
Morris teetered on the edge of the steep slope amid the mangled remnant of the guardrail. A few bits of broken glass and plastic were strewn about on the dirt shoulder next to the road.
Will was busy talking to one of the accident site investigators, trying to figure out what exactly happened. It had taken the rescue crews more than an hour to get down to the bottom of the ravine where the wreckage of the Mercedes lay. Upon arriving, they discovered the two occupants were, as they suspected, dead.
The driver’s body was crumpled against the upside-down windshield, his neck broken from the impact. About twenty feet away was the body of the passenger. His twisted body was riddled with bullet holes.
Who they were, though, was a total mystery. Neither of the two dead men had any kind of identification. And the fact that they both had gunshot wounds was indeed bizarre. The car itself had at least a dozen bullet holes riveting the metal and windshield.
Trent took a step back from the precipice and sauntered back to where his partner was finishing up with the lead CSI. The short gray-haired man in the traditional navy blue jacket with yellow lettering walked away, being called over to another marked spot to examine something.
“What did you find out?” Morris asked.
“This is nuts.” Will’s voice was half in disbelief and half-excited. They have found bullet casings all over the road for the last mile or so. One of the bodies in the car down there has a round in the arm. The other one has a couple of bullet wounds, one of them to the neck.” He looked down the road, contemplating the scenario. “There must have been quite a shootout here.”
Morris took a swig from a bottle of water he was holding. “Any ideas who or what these guys were shooting at?”
“The cops here don’t have a clue. All they do know is who lost.” He finished this last sentence by jerking a thumb toward the torn railing. Then his voice lowered, “But if you ask me, I think it was Wyatt.”
So it would seem. These kinds of things didn’t just happen out in this part of the country. Even in the worst parts of Atlanta, car-to-car shootouts were a rarity. The whole scenario brought up more questions than answers. Why would someone other than the police be chasing Wyatt?
After a few moments of careful thought, he said, “If Wyatt was here and he was involved, that means somebody was chasing him. But who?”
Will only responded with an ignorant shrug.
Trent scratched the back of his head, trying to understand what was going on. Things had just got a lot more complicated. What if Wyatt was innocent after all? The dead guys at the bottom of the canyon wouldn’t be much help. He doubted the weapons that were found near the wreck would give them any answers either.
Suddenly, one of the radios on a nearby police officer came alive with a voice from dispatch.
“What’s going on?” Trent asked the officer who was about to respond to the call.
The man did not seem bothered. “Got a call from a ranger station up near Track Rock. Someone said they heard gunshots a minute ago.” He spoke into the radio, letting the dispatcher know a unit would be on its way immediately.
Morris gave Will a quick nod that told the younger detective it was time to leave.
“Mind if we tag along?” he asked, following the cop toward a set of parked polic
e units.
“Sure. Never a bad thing to have some backup.” The man opened the door to his squad car and added, “Shouldn’t take us too long to get there, fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”
“Lead the way,” Trent replied.
Chapter 41
Blue Ridge Mountains
Sean felt horrible about Joe’s truck. The vehicle had basically been totaled from the two firefights it had endured thus far. How the thing had kept running boggled his mind.
“Aw, heck Sean, I appreciate it. But I ain’t worried about it,” Joe had replied to Sean’s apologies with a huge grin and a pass of the hand. “Now my wife on the other hand...”
They both laughed, imagining the scene when they returned to the cabin with a truck full of bullet holes. The look on Joe’s wife’s face would surely be one for the record books, followed by a fairly certain divorce filing, or at least the threat of one.
No, Sean would definitely see to it that the truck was replaced with one that looked exactly the same. The less Mrs. McElroy knew, the better.
The group got out of the truck and made their way up the short set of stairs into the old looking brick building. It seemed the library was in keeping with the town aesthetic. In the small Main Street district, most of the other buildings were very similar.
There had been a time, long ago, when the area was booming. During the Georgia Gold Rush in the early 1800s, people had moved there seeking fortune. But the vein of gold that had been found locally did not last long. A lasting tribute to the city’s past was the gold dome on top of the town hall, plated with metal from a mine nearby.
After passing through the security sensors, the room opened up into a much bigger space than seemed possible from the outside. To their right was a spiral staircase that led up to a second floor where it appeared many of the books were located.
On the ground floor, there was an open area in front of the librarian’s long checkout counter. Several computers were set up at one end. Through large, wooden doors behind the main counter was a large room with at least ten rows of reference books. Every ten feet there was a large window that looked into the reference room, perhaps to monitor patrons while they worked.
Beyond the staircase, a section for periodicals contained dozens of magazines and newspapers. A few empty couches that looked as old as the building itself sat unused in front of the shelves.
A skinny librarian, probably in her late fifties, was standing behind a computer and asked, “May I help you with something?” Her face seemed pleasant and honest behind the wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yes, ma’am,” Joe replied. “We just need to use one of your computers for a minute or two.”
She continued smiling. “Help yourself. Right over there,” she replied, pointing at the machines before going back to pecking at the keys on her own computer. The three visitors quickly stepped over to the computer nearest the door. Its screen was already on, as were the other six computers stationed in the little area.
Sean removed the digital camera from its black hard case and laid it next to the monitor. It was then that he realized they actually would need something from the lady behind the large counter.
“Ma’am,” he interrupted her politely. “You wouldn’t happen to have a camera USB cable would you?” Her eyes raised just above the glasses that were situated on the tip of her nose. The woman was still smiling as if her face were frozen permanently that way.
“Of course.” She clicked her mouse a few times, evidently saving what had been on the screen. Turning from the computer, she languidly moved over a few feet to her right. Seconds later, she had removed the needed cord from a drawer in the long counter. “Here you go,” she said, stepping toward the visitors. “Just be sure you give it back to me.”
Not like they would be able to escape the building without her noticing. She was the only other person there.
“Thanks,” Allyson offered to her. They certainly had to look awkward, the three of them coming to the library in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. Even though the librarian was still smiling, she had to be thinking something wasn’t quite right about the crew that had just walked through her door.
“You’re welcome,” the kind voice replied. She went back to her computer, minding her own business. They must not have seemed like too much of a threat. A minute later, Sean had connected the camera to the computer and was pulling up the images they had viewed earlier.
“So, now what?” Allyson asked.
“I’m going to pull up all of these images on the screen and see if they make any sense together. If they don’t...” he was already busy lining up the pictures from left to right, “...then we move them around until they do make sense.”
“Like a jigsaw puzzle.”
Joe stood behind them, looking between their heads as Sean continued to arrange the photos. Once he had finished, the entire layout was even more confusing than when they had been looking at the actual boulders, if that was possible.
“I gotta say,” Joe started, “I don’t see how you are going to make any sense of this.”
No reply was offered. Wyatt had to admit he held little hope that once the pictures were on the computer it would all come together. Unfortunately, it still seemed like a bunch of jumbled, meaningless drawings of animal tracks, lines, and circles.
After staring for a minute or two, he began rearranging the images on the screen. Another problem that presented itself was that looking at the boulders as entire units did not work. Essentially, Sean was now breaking up the large rocks into chunks in order to separate the symbols themselves. He spent a few more minutes sliding the pictures around and then stood still, befuddled.
“I just don’t know what to do,” he said finally. “Everything is so random.” He began again, moving the digital photo squares around on the screen, looking for something, anything, that might help.
Allyson leaned closer, trying her best to assist, but she was way out of her depth.
Joe appeared equally perplexed. “Sorry, bud. It is a several thousand-year-old mystery, you know.”
Sean ignored the comment and kept working. After ten more minutes of trying, though, he stepped away from the computer, frustrated. “I can see why no one has been able to understand these drawings. Makes me wonder if whoever drew this was just some ancient graffiti artist leaving a bunch of meaningless art on some rocks.”
He sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair, holding them on the back of his sandy-colored head for a few seconds before dropping them down to his side.
Allyson stood aimlessly at the computer, wishing there was something else she could do.
Joe’s eyes were wandering now, looking around the old library as if the answer might come from the old brick walls. His head stopped as he focused on a large painting attached to a column rising all the way to the ceiling. In the picture, a Native American warrior stood on a hilltop, overlooking a valley. His eyes were staring with a stern look into a scene of majestic, green mountains in the distance with a fiery sunrise in the backdrop.
Across the Indian’s back was a bow accompanied by a quiver of arrows. His arms were muscular and even more defined by the colorful bands of cloth that were snugly wrapped around his biceps.
What caught Joe’s eye, though, wasn’t necessarily the beauty of the picture or the Indian’s impressive physique. It was something smaller, fairly obscure. On the young brave’s arm was a kind of tattoo. To the casual observer, the mark would probably go unnoticed. But at that moment, the little tattoo in the picture made everything much clearer to the middle aged park ranger.
“Sean,” he said, interrupting his friend’s discouraged thoughts. “I think you should come take a look at this.”
He pointed up at the painting as Wyatt walked over to see what it was that had got the man’s attention.
“See the Indian?”
Nodding, Sean continued looking at the picture, not fully understanding what Joe had thought to be so important. A
llyson joined the two of them looking at the scene on the column.
“Look at his arm,” he said finally after giving his friend a minute, “at the tattoo.”
Sean’s face indicated that he was still not connecting the dots.
“Do you not see it?” Mac seemed to think the answer was obvious.
“I see the tattoo. Looks like a bird claw. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“There are some bird claws just like that on the rocks in the pictures,” Joe was talking frantically now. His demeanor had even got the stoic librarian’s attention as she looked up from her computer monitor, apparently annoyed with the volume of the discussion.
Then Sean and Allyson realized the connection he was trying to point out.
“What does it mean though?” Allyson asked confoundedly.
Joe explained, “In ancient Native American society, there were many different classes, or castes, similar to what exists in several present-day cultures. Here in the United States, we have upper, middle, and lower classes, but they are divided by socioeconomic status. We don’t really have divisions of people into groups like artists, doctors, military, clergy, etc. But in the Native societies, they did divide things up that way.” Again, he pointed up at the arm of the Indian in the picture. “This young man in the picture was obviously a warrior or a hunter because of the bow strapped to his back.”
The other two nodded, following along so far.
“But the bird claw tattoo is the real clue as to who this guy was. Those types of tattoos were used as markings of the warrior class. Interestingly enough, the United States still uses a touch of that symbol on many government emblems.”
Joe reached into his back pocket, removing his wallet. He produced a dollar bill and pointed at the image of the eagle for the small audience. “You see there? The claws are holding an olive branch and the arrows. Eagle claws were a symbol of strength. And only the strong can wage war or create peace. That’s how it has always been.”
Now Sean understood what his friend was getting at. “So, the claws on the rock represent locations of where the warriors dwelled in the ancient times?”
Sean Wyatt Compilation Box Set Page 19
