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“I have an idea.”
The governor stared at him, waiting.
“Alex had two years left. You’re the one who appoints someone to serve out that Senate term. We both know the score. The person has to be totally uninterested in keeping the job two years from now. He or she is a caretaker. Nothing more. A seat warmer. But the person also has to be competent.” He saw the dots were already connecting. “I know this appointment could be a minefield for you. People from everywhere will call in favors to get it, even for only two years just to keep the seat warm. No matter what you do, you’re goin’ to piss somebody off. So screw ’em all and give me the job.”
The governor grinned. “It does have a ring of sentimentality.”
That it did. Only one other man had ever served as president then been chosen for the U.S. Senate.
Andrew Johnson.
Who hailed from just up the road in Greene County, Tennessee.
“You’ll be the second.”
“And it’s a good play for you,” he said. “I’ll keep things quiet until the voters can pick who they want to be their next senator in two years. You can’t get in trouble for that.”
“Except you’ve never kept anything quiet in your life.”
“I do plan to snoop around. I’m going to find out what the hell’s goin’ on here. But I promise, I’ll be a good boy.”
“You do realize that ex-presidents are supposed to go away.”
“I never liked that prefix. It has an awful ring to it. But I’m doing this for Alex.” He paused, realizing he shouldn’t kid a kidder. “And for me.”
“I knew there was no way you were just going to sit around and write your memoirs.”
A fierce, predatory concern had enveloped him. One that had never left him during eight years in the White House, but had quelled four months ago as he’d watched a new president take the oath.
“I need this,” he admitted again. “I really do.”
“I remember a time when I needed things. And you made sure I got them. So no problem, Danny. I’ll do it. For Alex—and you.”
In an instant the fear and isolation he’d been feeling of late transformed into a focused desire for action.
And a realization.
He was back in the game.
Plan your work and work your plan.
His mantra.
He knew his eyes held both a brassy glint of mischief and a touch of relief, so he told his old friend, “There’s somethin’ dead up this creek. I can feel it. So I’m gonna paddle up and see what we find.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cotton stared across the table at Terry Morse, his patience at an end. They sat in the kitchen, Morse’s gaze out toward the open windows. A few of the bees hovered with a murmur just outside the screen, beneath the eaves.
“They’ll head back to the hive soon,” Morse said. “After they calm.”
Morse had uprighted and repaired the shattered boxes, then used smokers to herd most of the insects back to their homes.
“Bees live by order,” the older man said. “They like things organized. There are rules in the hive.”
Cassiopeia and Lea sat at the table with them. Cassiopeia kept a watch out the windows, too, holding her gun, which the men had left behind.
“What did they tell you?” Cotton asked, his Beretta on the table before him. “That you’d be doing your duty by leading us on?”
Morse nodded. “They showed up right before you came. Parked out back, out of sight. They knew the handshake and the right words. My pa told me to always respect men who knew those things. When you appeared with Lea, they waited in the bedroom and listened. I was plannin’ on showin’ them the stone, so I just led you out there, too.”
“Your father lived in another time,” Cotton said. “Things have changed. Those men don’t give a damn about the Knights of the Golden Circle.”
“I see that now. I made a mistake.” Morse stared at his granddaughter. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Tell me about that stone,” Cotton said to Morse. “And for your own sake, give it to me straight.”
“You realize I’ve kept this secret a long time.”
“Like I said, different time. A lot of crimes have been committed here, and it’s judgment day.”
A look of defeat swept across Morse’s face. He felt for the old man, but he had a job to do.
“It’s one of five,” Morse said. “My pa told me that his father was specially chosen to guard this one. That was an honor he was really proud of, and he passed it on to me.”
“So how did the stone end up in your bee house?” Cassiopeia asked.
He wanted to know the answer to that question, too.
“It goes back a long time, when I wasn’t much younger than Lea.”
Morse followed his father through the forest of oak, beech, hickory, and pine, careful to keep a watch for rattlesnakes and hogs. He loved the woods. The streams yielded not only fresh water but also fish. The woods had deer, walnuts, berries, and—his personal favorite—cherries. The Ozark and Ouachita Mountains were his home, and he imagined that would be the case for his entire life.
His father was a powerful man other men treated with great respect. He raised pigs and trapped furs. When people were starving during the Depression he brought many of them game and made sure no one went hungry. His moonshine was legendary with both the locals and the revenuers. People came to him for both help and advice.
“Where we goin’?’” he asked his father.
“Huntin’ cows.”
He’d heard the term before and, when younger, actually thought that’s what his father meant. But he’d come to know that the term had another meaning. Usually, his father had saddled up his horse and headed into the woods alone, huntin’ cows. Today he’d been brought along, riding his own horse, toting his own rifle.
His father stopped and he came up beside him.
“Take a look at that twisty beech tree, there by the stream?”
He followed his father’s pointed finger.
“We call ’em treasure trees. They’re loaded with carvin’s. Read ’em right they lead you to gold.”
His father had never spoken of this before.
“You’re the firstborn. That mean
s you’re the next sentinel. I’m goin’ to teach you all you have to know, but that’s only if you want to learn.”
A thrill rushed through him, like water down the stream, connecting him to his father like never before. Was there any better feeling?
“I want to learn,” he said.
“I thought you might. See that hollow, beyond the creek?”
He did.
“Someone’s buried up there. He was in places he shouldn’t be and ended up dead. It was a long time ago. But that’s what it takes sometimes. You have to hunt the cows.”
And he suddenly realized what the term meant. “Did you shoot him?”
“My father did. But I was there. Just like you’re here today.”
The connection became stronger, back another generation. “I can do whatever I have to.”
His father smiled. “I believe you can.”
They kept riding, deeper into the woods, heading south, away from their cabin, following the stream. He’d explored this region of the woods many times and had seen the carved animal figures, the cryptic letters, the dates notched into trees and rocks. But he’d never understood their significance. He’d thought they were just graffiti. He wanted to ask more questions but knew that was not a good idea. His father would tell him what he wanted him to know when ready.
But he realized what was happening.
His education had begun.
“My pa was a tough man,” Morse said. “I learned later that he killed three people while huntin’ cows.”
“That’s not what you said earlier,” Cassiopeia noted.
“I lied.”
Lea seemed surprised by the revelation. “You never told me anything about people dyin’.”
“’Cause I never expected you to ever kill anybody. So you didn’t need to know.”
“Did you kill anyone?” she asked her grandfather.
Morse shook his head. “I never could. I just scare ’em away.”
“What happened with your father?” Cotton asked. “That day by the creek.”
“We went somewhere.”
He kept riding up the narrow trail, the horses’ footing sure, but kept a wary eye out just in case.
