by Steve Berry
“At home.
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
* * *
She wheeled up to the picket fence and braked to a stop. Lea bounded off the front porch and ran her way. She hopped out of the vehicle and saw the anxiety on the young woman’s face.
“Tell me what happened.”
Two men with guns had appeared. There was some heated talk, then Morse went along without resistance. Cassiopeia assumed the old man had done that to protect Lea.
“They also wanted the Witch’s Stone.”
“They took it?”
Lea nodded.
Apparently, Proctor was tying up loose ends. And he definitely had more help around.
“I heard where they were going,” she said. “Grandpa asked them why they were taking him back to the mine.”
Smart move on Morse’s part sending that message.
“You stay here,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m going with you.”
The look of determination on Lea’s face was hard to ignore and, besides, she needed some help with directions back to the site.
“Okay,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Cotton stood beside Stephanie’s hospital bed. He’d left the American history museum and decided to stop by here on his way to where Frank Breckinridge lived. Rick Stamm had provided him with a car and told him that the retired curator was pushing eighty and lived alone, so he decided his visit could wait another hour. It was Stephanie’s condition that concerned him.
She lay motionless amid tubes, dripping bags, and bandages, arms at her sides. They’d been through so much together, good and bad. He owed her more than he could ever repay. He’d been a JAG lawyer, headed for a mundane legal career, all at the insistence of others, men who’d known his dead father and thought that flying fighter jets was not his best career move. He’d really loved flying. Nothing better. But back then he’d carried a blind worship of his missing father that included listening to those other men, and doing what they thought best. Then everything changed the day he met Stephanie Nelle. And he found out what those friends of his father really had in mind. He became a Magellan Billet agent, permanently assigned to the Justice Department. He never lost his rank of lieutenant commander and kept his commission until the day he quit both the Billet and the navy and moved to Denmark.
Now he was a bookseller.
Sort of.
What would his father think?
He could only hope he’d be proud.
The door to the hospital room opened and Danny Daniels entered. Cotton hadn’t seen him since Inauguration Day, when he, Cassiopeia, Daniels, and Stephanie left the White House for the last time. The former president was dressed in a suit and tie, looking every bit presidential.
“How is she?” Daniels asked.
“The nurse told me there’s been no change. She’s still in a coma.”
“Any leads on who shot her?”
“I just had him in my sights, but he got away.”
Daniels faced him. “Talk to me. Tell me everything.”
He told Daniels about the Smithsonian, the Knights of the Golden Circle, what happened in Arkansas, and what had occurred over the past few hours.
“This started thanks to one of the Smithsonian Libraries Advisory Board members. A woman named Diane Sherwood. The widow of Senator Sherwood,” Cotton said. “He was a Smithsonian regent, which makes this real touchy over there. I assume you knew Senator Sherwood?”
“He was a close friend. And by the way, you’re looking at the newest junior senator from Tennessee. I was sworn in a little while ago to serve out Alex’s term.”
He was impressed. “I can only imagine how you pulled that off. And why do I get the feeling that’s connected to what’s happening here?”
“Because it is. You and I seem to be in the same mess.”
And he listened as Daniels explained what he’d witnessed over the past twenty-four hours, ending with, “Alex’s girlfriend told me that the guy who went into his apartment and took the journal was middle-aged, white, with a port wine stain on the back of his neck.”
“The same guy who killed Martin Thomas and probably shot Stephanie.”
“Who had a key to the apartment, which means Diane gave it to him. That ties her to the murder of that librarian and probably the attempt on Stephanie. I’d say you need to rattle her cage real good.”
“The chancellor specifically told me not to do that.”
He explained the chief justice’s angle.
“Warren Weston is a friggin’ blowhard,” Daniels said. “He should have retired a long time ago, but he stayed on the Supreme Court just so I couldn’t appoint his successor. We sent feelers his way several times that it might be time for him to leave, but he sent ’em right back with a polite go-to-hell.”
“He’s all over this. Personally overseeing things. He also deliberately involved me, then Stephanie.”
They moved away from the bed, as if she could be listening.
Which they could only hope.
Daniels ran his fingers through his thick mane of silvery hair. “Weston could be right, though. If you spook ’em by going to Diane, they’ll just go to ground. Better to let ’em keep runnin’, thinking they’re in the clear. But what the Speaker of the House is working on—that needs some brakes on it right now. He’s a few steps ahead of me, and I need to catch up.”
He now understood more about the temporary appointment. “Being a senator opens a lot of doors, doesn’t it?”
“Damn right. But we’re coming into this game late. I hope to God not too late. I knew Diane’s father once worked at the Smithsonian. I just never knew about his fascination with the Golden Circle. I don’t know anything about her brother, but I’m about to find out. I have to confess, the Knights of the Golden Circle are pretty unknown to me. My granddaddy told me about ’em once. They were big in Tennessee. There was even a castle in Blount County, back at the end of the 19th century. But beyond that I don’t know beans about ’em.”
“I suggest you get familiar, since they’re front and center here.”
“Is a cross within a circle important to them?”
He nodded. “It was one of their symbols.”
And Daniels told him about a necklace that Alex Sherwood’s mistress had given him. “Diane told me she had it made. One for her, another for Alex.”
“That woman is in this up to her eyeballs.”
Daniels nodded. “That she is. And that same symbol was etched on the front of her brother’s notebook. That’s not a coincidence.”
No. It wasn’t.
They both stared over at Stephanie, who continued to breathe with help from a ventilator.
“She’s important to you, isn’t she?” he asked Daniels.
“I love her. And she loves me.”
“You sound almost relieved to say that.”
“I am. About time, too. She can’t die on me now.”
Daniels walked back to the bed and took Stephanie’s hand into his own. Cotton realized that this man would never do that with just anyone in the room, and he appreciated the confidence the former president was showing in him. He also saw the eyes. Wet with anxiety.
And maybe a little fear.
He was scared himself.
“One thing, Cotton,” Daniels said, his gaze still on Stephanie. “When you find the guy with the port wine stain, I want in on taking him down.”
“You mean you want to kill him.”
“If the opportunity presents itself.”
“You do know that would be the last thing Stephanie would want you to do.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“Weston thinks this other man, Frank Breckinridge, might be able to fill in some gaps.”
“Careful with Warren Weston. I never found him to be particularly trustworthy. But I hate all judges, so it might just be me.”
Cotton had never been much of a fan, either. He could count on one hand the
number of black robes that had earned his respect.
“I have to go,” Daniels said. “I’ll be back later. I plan to spend the night here.”
“I’ll check in with you when I know more.”
“Diane Sherwood and Lucius Vance are up to no good,” Daniels said. “Her brother, too. It’s up to us to find out what that is. Tread carefully, Cotton. And one thing. I have Alex’s Senate seat and everything that goes with it. So I’m now a Smithsonian regent. Let me know if you need to use that in any way.”
He nodded and started for the door. “What do you plan to do while I visit this guy Breckinridge?”
“I’m goin’ to start whacking the heads off some snakes.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Grant left the barbershop. He’d never liked going to a women’s salon to have his hair cut. He preferred an old-fashioned barber’s chair. Luckily, a few of those still remained, including one north of central DC that he preferred. It came with a striped pole out front and even offered a shave and shoeshine. His brown curly locks were gone, his hair now a pale brush cut. He’d also decided that one other precautionary measure needed to be taken, so he’d stopped at a Walgreens and bought some makeup.
As a child his birthmark had been a deep purple splotch, extending from the back of his neck to his left jawline. It wasn’t a health issue, except if he cut the skin. Bleeding could be hard to stop. In grammar school he’d taken some ribbing for the discoloration. Once, his mother decided to put an end to it and applied makeup, which did hide the stain, but he just received even more abuse. So he learned to live with it, and anyone who had a problem with that received his fists. There’d been a few fights but, eventually, the bullies moved on.
Some makeup right now, though, seemed like a good idea. He’d been careful inside the museums, but the back of his neck may well have been noticed. The birthmark could provide anyone looking for him with a ready marker. As would his former hair. But that was gone and the stain was now hidden beneath a layer of foundation.
All in all an effective transformation.
Diane had listened wide-eyed as he told her only what he believed she needed to know, wondering the whole time if he’d done the right thing by being so open. He’d expected anger, accusation, even shock. Instead, his report had been met with silence, then approval. He doubted that her brother would be as generous. But he’d come to learn that Kenneth did what his sister told him.
The news that Vance was moving ahead to change Congress seemed exciting. He loved being a part of all this intrigue. Definitely beat his days as a paralegal. Thank goodness the gold coins he’d managed to secure from the cache they’d found in Kentucky were still paying his bills. He’d sold most of them to a collector who had paid top dollar. But he was anxious to find the mother lode.
The vault.
As a kid his father had been free with the stories. Maybe he thought it a way for them to bond, or a fulfillment of the hope that the son would follow in the father’s footsteps. But as it became apparent that he had no aptitude for academics, the information flow ended, and his father never made any secret of his disappointment. Any dream that he might work at the Smithsonian would never be. Instead he’d found a living elsewhere, and then happened to be in the right place, at the right time, to meet Diane.
Something to be said for luck.
Now he planned to make some of his own.
He’d dealt with Martin Thomas and the woman from the Justice Department. He’d found the Witch’s and Trail Stones. They already had photographs of the Horse Stone, there for the taking in the Smithsonian archives.
Two stones remained.
Unfortunately, to find either he would need his father’s assistance. He’d already decided this time not to fight the old man’s dementia. Instead he would play into it. Online he’d found a site that sold Confederate uniforms to modern-day reenactors. It seemed a big business, so it was easy to buy officer’s clothing, more than accurate enough to convince a sick mind. Some show-and-tell should help break through the fog. If that didn’t work, he could always beat the information out of the old man.
And he would, if necessary.
He took a cab back to his house, found the uniform, and headed out to his car. He’d change at his father’s house.
The objective now was to locate the Heart Stone.
Shaped as described, it was designed to fit into the indentation on the Trail Stone, one side etched with vital information.
His father had cleverly hidden the Trail Stone within the reef exhibit inside the natural history museum.
“I had to keep that fool Yankee, Davis Layne, from getting his hands on it. We have to protect our precious things. Northerners don’t give a damn about what’s important to us.”
What a fight that must have been.
Two curators locked in a great battle.
But the fifth, the so-called Alpha Stone, remained a mystery. He knew little to nothing about it, and would have to coax his father into talking more on that subject. There’d been mentions here and there, but no specifics.
That stone was vital.
As it showed the starting point.
He dug his cars keys from his pocket, tossed them in the air, and caught them in triumph.
Things were finally going his way.
He climbed into the car and drove across town toward his father’s residence. The new haircut should make him look more like a soldier, though not necessarily one from the 1860s. Long, shaggy hair had been the norm then. Hopefully his father’s fading mind would not be thrown off by such details.
This quest was definitely winding down.
Time to retrieve the final pieces.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Diane sat in the quiet of Alex’s apartment and studied on her iPad the images of what Grant had managed to find. The Witch’s Stone seemed easy. Its words were an introduction to the quest, a clear statement of intent.
This path is dangerous. I go to 18 places. Seek the map. Seek the heart.
But the symbols?
Those were more complicated.
The lower torso and “legs” of the robed image seemed to represent more a stack of blocks, a foundation, or a pedestal, than a person, which might point the way to some pronounced, pointy landmark in a particular area. Her father had taught her that the Order loved to send mixed messages. Misdirection had been their forte. Playing a hunch, she’d Googled the Spanish word for “witch” and discovered it to be bruja. So if the robed figure was meant to portray a witch, perhaps it was a play on the word brújula, which meant “compass”?
A possibility.
She took another look at the Trail Stone.
The heart-shaped indentation had the same four numbers—1847—that appeared on the Witch’s Stone, perhaps meant to link those, as did the Witch’s Stone command.
Seek the heart.
Her father had managed to study the Trail Stone before Grant’s father hid it away, and he’d told her all about it. Strangely, there were no surviving photos from its time within the Smithsonian, but she had pictures of the destroyed Horse Stone, which Martin Thomas had obtained.
The message on the left likely meant the horse of faith. A perplexing phrase, but her father had researched those four words in detail, eventually discovering that it might refer to an old Spanish expression taken to mean I am a servant of the faith.
Which fit the Order perfectly.
Their faith had been in a new southern empire, that inevitable golden circle that never came to be.
The Spanish wording to the right of the horse, I graze to the north of the river, had to be a reference point. What else could it be? So taken together, the phrases cast a double meaning. The horse of faith, I graze to the north of the river, or maybe, as her father concluded, The servant of faith, I shepherd to the north of the river.
The Horse Stone was somewhat of an anomaly. Its imagery had been part of the Smithsonian archives since World War I, which had lent it to study from
time to time by those who’d understood its significance. Taken alone, though, it was meaningless. Which might explain why images of it had survived, since it led nowhere. The newly uncovered Trail Stone seemed more difficult. The 1973 feud between the two fathers had started over it. Both men had access but, in the end, Frank Breckinridge hid it away, stopping any further searching for the vault. Two years ago she’d gone to see the old man to get him to tell her where he’d hid it, hoping time might have softened him. But all she found was a fading mind with little hold on reality.
She studied the broad, undulating line that cut across the top of the Trail Stone, which could indicate a horizon, or maybe a river, since the letter R appeared on the right, perhaps indicating rio, as on the Horse Stone. The large dagger seemed important. Its hilt formed an arrow that pointed straight at the recessed heart. Below that a curving dotted line seemed like a trail with evenly spaced markers. What had the Witch’s Stone said?
I go to 18 locations.
But only four dots were visible.
The rest had to be revealed on the Heart Stone.
Surrounding the recessed heart were a series of wavy squiggles, which could be indicators of mountains, hills, canyons, or other terrain. But it could also be mere “white noise,” added to make things appear more complex and confuse the searcher.
She knew what had to be done.
The Trail Stone had to be fitted with the Heart Stone, then both connected to the fifth and final piece of the puzzle.
The Alpha Stone.
That one could prove impossible to find since, as far as she knew, the Order no longer existed. She was hoping, as her father had hoped forty years before, that modern technology could breach the gap and reveal the missing starting point. The Trail and Heart Stones, when assembled, should form a reasonably complete map. But nothing about this had been made easy. Understandable, given the enormous prize. And the effort had become even more complicated thanks to the passions of men who’d taken it upon themselves to protect that lost wealth.
Like Frank Breckinridge.
