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Which meant a mine.
Below that stretched an uneven line with the word rio. Spanish for “river.” Between the line marked rio and the wavy line to the horse’s face were two more circles with dots and another inverted U. Below the wavy midline, near the left edge, was a solitary cross, then a Spanish expression el cobollo de santafe. He knew of no word cobollo. But caballo was a different story, so this might be similar to what was on the Witch’s Stone.
An intentional error.
El caballo de santafe.
The horse of faith.
At the upper right, another expression. Yo pasto al norte del rio. This one was easy. I graze to the north of the river. Below that was what looked like a G or maybe the number 6.
“You understand, don’t you?” Weston said.
He nodded. “It talks about the horse of faith, who grazes or shepherds north of the river.” He pointed to the cross. “That could mark the location of a church, or a mission. There are mine symbols all over it. And that horse wasn’t placed there for decoration. What about the fifth stone?”
He could ask now, without compromising Morse, since Weston had noted there were five.
“It’s said that the head of the Order kept that one for himself. Like a fail-safe. The Alpha Stone. And without it, the map is useless, as that one provides the starting point. Supposedly you need all five stones to form the map. Forty years ago Davis Layne thought he could get around that. In 1973 we knew the world far better than it was known at the turn of the 20th century. Today GPS technology is even better. Layne believed that with only four stones the treasure could be found, omitting the Alpha Stone. I’m thinking that whoever is looking now believes the same thing.”
“Our killer with the curly hair and the port wine stain?”
“That’s right.”
“You know a lot about this subject,” Cotton noted.
“I was a close friend of Davis Layne’s. At the time I served on the DC Court of Appeals, and he and I talked about this subject in detail. The Knights of the Golden Circle may have been the greatest crime syndicate ever formed, though they would have called themselves patriots. During the Civil War they stole countless millions in gold and silver, robbing people, banks, trains, boats, and even a couple of U.S. mints. After the war they stole even more, mainly from Reconstructionists.”
He explained what Terry Morse had told him, then said, “The Witch’s Stone is safe in Arkansas.”
Or at least he still hoped so. He still had not heard a word from Cassiopeia.
“We sent you out there,” the chief justice said, “hoping you could decipher the symbols in the woods and find that cache. I thought you might. Your locating the Witch’s Stone is an added bonus.”
“And we have digital images,” he said.
On Cassiopeia’s phone.
“To answer your original question,” Weston said, “your ancestor, Angus Adams, was the sentinel who both created and guarded the vault. Show him, Rick.”
Stamm found something in the computer data bank and pointed to the screen. The image was of a man in a mid-19th-century dress suit, slender, no more than 150 pounds, standing with his head held high, back straight. Cotton noticed the square jaw, piercing eyes, and light hair.
And in the face he saw himself.
“That was taken in 1877, long after Angus Adams achieved notoriety as a spy,” Weston said. “I found it in the Smithsonian archives. Adams had come here, on a visit to see his friend Joseph Henry, and posed for the picture. A few months ago Rick researched the Adams lineage, which led us to your mother, then to you. Quite to our amazement, we came to learn that you were a former intelligence officer. One of some renown, like Adams. You even have his nickname. Can I ask how that happened?”
Ordinarily he’d be coy but, he had to admit, the photo cast a spell. People liked to ask him about the name Cotton and his answer was always the same. Long story. But not this time.
“When I was seven, my grandfather showed my dad a picture of Adams. Not as crisp as this one, but discernible. In ours he was younger, with a carefree look about him, grinning at the camera. We all noticed that I look just like him.”
“You do,” Stamm said.
“But that’s only partly how I got the nickname.”
So he explained how, shortly after seeing the old photo, he was being babysat by a neighbor he did not like. She had a disgusting habit of heaping cottage cheese over a slice of bread, then dripping honey on top, the sight of which turned his stomach. She also was a hard-ass. To show his displeasure at both her and her eating habits, he spiked her cottage cheese with cotton from his mother’s medicine cabinet, lacing it in so it was hardly noticeable until she tried to swallow. The woman nearly choked. Of course, his father tanned his hide, but the act of defiance cemented his connection to Angus Adams.
“From that day on, my father called me Cotton,” he said. “Three years later he died, but I kept the nickname. And every time I hear it, I think of him.”
“I learned about your father,” Weston said. “A navy submarine commander, lost at sea.”
Which was still the official version, though now he knew better.
“I know about the vault,” he decided to say.
“From Morse?”
He nodded.
“Most of the Order’s hierarchy, Angus Adams included, were dead by the turn of the 20th century. Unfortunately, they died without passing on much in the way of information. Only bits and pieces survived. The Smithsonian made two efforts to find the vault. One around 1909, the other in the 1970s. Both failed.”
He told Weston what Morse had related about Jefferson Davis coming to Arkansas to hide the Witch’s Stone.
“Davis was of the Order,” Weston said. “He was a southerner through and through until the day he died. It’s good to hear that he was the one who helped protect the vault.”
He caught the implacable eye of authority from eyes that were accustomed to exuding power, determination, and purpose.
“Mr. Malone, all of this is far above our expertise. We desperately need your help.”
“To do what?”
“Find the vault.”
“For the government? Or the Smithsonian?”
“Does it matter?”
“That wealth is stolen property.”
Weston shrugged. “With no way to prove a thing.”
He decided to let that one hang and shifted tack. “You realize that Diane Sherwood is more than likely connected to our killer with the port wine stain. A man who probably also shot Stephanie Nelle. Forgive me, but finding him is more important to me than any gold.”
“But I believe that by finding the vault you’ll also be able to solve both of those crimes. I would caution that speaking to Mrs. Sherwood now would be a waste of time. She’ll have a perfect explanation ready, one that leads you nowhere. The better way is to stay quiet and keep digging. Approach her when we know the answers to all of the questions.”
“Spoken like a lawyer.”
“I’m assuming you, too, learned that lesson.”
Absolutely. Never ask a witness a question you did not know the answer to.
“It’s not like she’s going anywhere,” Weston said. “And we have a couple of days, thanks to Ms. Nelle, who secreted Martin Thomas’ body away. Can we use that time wisely?”
He wondered exactly for what, but decided to heed the advice he’d just been given.
And not ask any more questions—until he had the answers.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Danny had slipped out of the Vice President’s Room in the Capitol, ignoring the media that had congregated beyond the restricted area. He further avoided the press by taking the underground subway over to t
he Dirksen Office Building. The tunnels beneath the Capitol were for senators and their staff, the subway just for senators. Seventeen senators worked out of the Dirksen building, including Alex Sherwood, who’d occupied a suite of fourth-floor offices befitting his seniority and influence. The building was named for the long-serving senator from Illinois, Everett Dirksen, who died in the late 1960s when Danny was still a teenager. Dirksen had been noted for his witticisms, one of which had worked its way into Danny’s personal mantra. I’m a man of fixed and unbending principles, the first of which is to be flexible at all times.
Damn right.
Like now.
His swearing-in had probably caught every member of Alex’s staff off guard. They suddenly had a new boss. And not just any boss. An ex-president of the United States, who surely possessed his own inner circle of confidants that did not include them. So as he walked off the elevator on the fourth floor and made his way down the long, gleaming corridor, he told himself to be extra flexible.
He’d made a quick call to the hospital and was told by the Magellan Billet agent that there’d been no change. Stephanie was stable but still out. He’d head back over there in a few hours. But he’d told the agent to call the second anything changed.
At the end of the corridor a simple bronze plaque announced: SENATOR ALEX SHERWOOD—TENNESSEE. Sadly, that would have to be changed. But maybe not. Perhaps he’d leave it right there as a tribute to his friend. That was another thing about being an ex-president.
Accolades mattered little anymore.
He entered through an open door, flanked on either side by flags, one of the United States, the other Tennessee. There was no knob to turn. Instead, the door hung wide open. The message clear. We’re here to serve. Come on in.
Inside opened to a comfortable reception area and he immediately noticed the wall to his left, which displayed from top to bottom tools, fiddles, guitars, and other Tennessee memorabilia, all mounted atop aged pine planks that left no doubt which part of the country this office called home.
A young lady sat at a desk.
She stood as he came into the room.
