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What in the world?
Taisely had told him that all of this had come from Diane’s brother, Kenneth Layne. The pages seemed some sort of a research summary on the subject of Senate and House rules, containing references and notes from various court opinions. Other parts dealt with Article V, which provided the means and method of how the Constitution could be amended—another rather obscure subject, but one that had apparently consumed Kenneth Layne’s attention. What was Layne up to? And why had Alex soured on it, as Taisley had said?
The last few pages of the notebook were particularly intriguing.
Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens hated each other. Though they served as president and vice president of the Confederate States, their philosophies differed. Davis favored war. Stephens preferred constitutional change. Stephens never wanted war, but stayed loyal to Georgia and supported his state when it seceded. But where initially Davis had thought legal change impossible, by April 1865 he came to believe it may be the only course left since war had failed.
Stephens served in the House of Representatives from 1843 to 1859. Just as the Senate was growing in stature, the filibuster was coming of age. By the 1850s little could be done in Congress without placating every member of the Senate. One senator was enough as an enemy. Fed up, Representative Alexander Stephens from Georgia devised a way to strip the Senate of its power, but could never gain enough momentum to have the idea implemented. Then war intervened. From 1873 to 1882 Stephens once again served in the House of Representatives. By then the Senate had become the dominant chamber in Congress. Changing anything was out of the question.
He had no idea what to make of the observations. What had Alexander Stephens devised to corral the Senate? He’d never heard of that observation before.
Only about three-quarters of the notebook’s pages were written upon. On the final page appeared a name.
Knights of the Golden Circle.
Which he knew about, vaguely, from old stories.
Then a written statement.
I consider a nation with a king, as a man who takes a lion as a guard dog. If he knocks out his teeth, he renders the lion useless. While if he leaves the lion his teeth, the lion eats him.
A notation indicated that the quote was attributable to James Smithson, the man who left the initial seed money that ultimately created the Smithsonian Institution. Alex had served as a Smithsonian regent, so he’d be familiar with Smithson. But the single word written at the bottom of the page was what really drew Danny’s attention.
Exactly.
The ink for all three entries was in a different color, written by a different hand.
Alex’s, which he recognized.
As if a point was being made.
He had a bad feeling.
And unfortunately there was only one play left on the board.
Diane.
Sure, she’d be pissed at what he’d done, but she’d get over it. That was one thing about being an ex-president. People cut you a lot of slack. He recalled something one of his old political nemeses liked to say. Observe, remember, compare, read, confer, listen, and question.
He’d already worked the first six.
Time now to question.
He sat a few moments, sucking in the waft of old comforts around him. The silence pressed on his ears, palpable as the pressure from an explosion. Rain peppered the window, sounding like mice scurrying on the floor. He glanced over, the curtains not drawn. Pauline had hated to be in a lighted room, at night, with the windows unshaded. But he’d never seemed to mind. How would Diane react to the fact that her husband may have loved another woman? That he planned to divorce her? He’d keep those tidbits to himself for as long as possible. Though he may not have cared for Diane through the years, there seemed no reason to hurt her outright.
With the notebook in hand he stood, found his car keys, then headed downstairs. Outside, the governor’s security team kept watch on the front porch.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“It’s awful late. Do you need an escort?” the man asked.
That was the last thing he required.
“Nope. I got it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cotton followed Morse outside. Cassiopeia and Lea came, too. He was learning things, like with his own grandfather, in tiny doses. From ages ten to sixteen he’d been enthralled by stories. His mother’s family had all been Confederates, proud Georgians who’d stood with their state when it abandoned the Union. Clearly a different time and place. But no Adams had ever owned slaves. Instead, they’d worked the land as a family. Thankfully, there’d been a lot of them in and around Vidalia, Georgia. No onions then, though. Those didn’t start until the 1930s. Corn and cotton had been big business then.
They all stopped on the porch.
“I been doin’ this a long time,” Morse said. “Sentinels were once stationed all over Arkansas. We each had a slice of land to look after. My pa showed me the map tree that you found. I was younger than Lea when he explained about it. It’s my main marker. That’s why it’s there. Like a boundary line. I keep a watch over the woods for fifty miles in every direction from it. Not all the time. Just when people come snooping.”
“And how do you know where things are buried?” Cassiopeia asked.
“I don’t. But the markers lead the way. I was told only a few exact locations by my pa. But those are paycheck holes.”
God bless his grandfather. Cotton knew what that meant. Of the caches that were buried, some were made known to those who guarded over them. Small amounts of gold and silver hidden as periodic payment for their services.
“We’d get instructions sent to us where to dig. Then we’d go and get us a little gold for ourselves,” Morse said.
“You ever dig one up?” he asked.
The old man shook his head. “Never got the opportunity. No instructions ever came to me. But that jar you found today was mighty small. I’d say it was a paycheck hole, meant for my pa.”
“So you’ve worked for free?” Cassiopeia asked.
“I guess so. I watch for people who get interested in certain spots, then I work to change their interest.”
The knot on his forehead still hurt from that persuasion. “Has there been a lot of interest?”
“That’s the funny thing. Nothin’ for a long time.
A while back there were some books put out on the subject that brought in treasure hunters. Mostly amateurs. They came lookin’ for the trees, diggin’ for markers. But I scared ’em off. Then, a month ago, the one fellow came, then the group of fellows, then you. Been busy lately.”
“There was a Smithsonian expedition here back in 1909. Did your father or grandfather ever mention it?”
Morse threw him a curious look. “That one was a big deal. My pa told me about it. Fellow died, I believe. Huntin’ accident. That kind of stuff happened around here sometimes.”
“Your pa ever kill anybody who got too close?”
Morse clearly did not like the question. “My uncle did. Two in fact. Shot ’em and buried ’em up in the hills.”
“Which is murder.”
“I guess it is, but what the crap does it matter anymore? My uncle and all the sentinels from back then are dead.”
“It matters, Mr. Morse,” Cassiopeia said. “Because it was murder.”
“You ever kill anybody?” the older man asked her.
“I have.”
“I bet you have, too,” Morse said to Cotton.
He nodded.
“I would imagine you had a reason. They did, too. That gold didn’t belong to those people searchin’ for it.”
Cotton decided that this debate would lead nowhere so he changed tack. “You never learned to read the markers in the woods?”
Morse shook his head. “Never had to. Not my job. You seem to know a lot about us. You sure you ain’t a knight?”
He actually could have been. His grandfather had told him a lot about the Order and how they hid their loot. So-called hoot owl trees, like he’d seen earlier, either purposefully bent or unusual looking, mainly three or more in a straight line, there to tag the site from a distance. Or trees planted in rows, sometimes with one missing, that spot most likely where a hoard lay buried. Other trees were trimmed in unnatural patterns, like the goalposts today, or into T’s or cross-shaped, molded for years from saplings. A few had knobs knitted into their trunks, or gauges down the bark. To make sure magnetism survived as long as possible, large ferrous objects like stoves, wash pots, milk cans, strongboxes, and plows were buried. More markers included diamond-shaped clusters of stones, holes drilled into rocks, and cryptic carvings, each an indicator of direction and distance, referring either to compass headings, topographic features, or a linear geometric grid.
