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“It appears we trusted Mr. Thomas far too much,” Weston noted.
Cotton’s mind was racing. “I still have Cassiopeia Vitt on the ground, in Arkansas. I assume you’d like the Witch’s Stone returned here?”
“Definitely,” Weston said.
That should not be a problem.
He again examined the Trail Stone, and decided to pose a question of his own. “How does the ceremonial key fit in? It has to be quite important.”
And he caught the twinkle in Weston’s eye.
“Actually, I was hoping you might have the answer to that question.”
* * *
Cassiopeia hid in the trees, near Terry Morse’s truck. Morning had arrived, the sun cresting the forested hills to the east. Morse and Lea had left in the car that had brought Morse to the mine. She’d stayed, waiting for whoever planned to come back for the gold and the two acolytes. Her patience was rewarded about two and a half hours after Morse and Lea left when a Toyota pickup rumbled down the road toward the mine.
She hadn’t disturbed Morse’s truck, as it was there when the men left earlier and needed to be there when they returned. Only the driver filled the truck cab, so three of the four men from earlier were accounted for. She’d also managed to grab a quick peek at the face, and it wasn’t Proctor.
The driver disappeared toward the mine and she settled in, chafing with impatience, eyes gritty with fatigue. A dry breeze tapped loose soil against the truck’s flank. The driver would have to find out what happened to his compatriots, then help the one guy out of the mine. What to do with the other body might be a problem. Leave it in the pit? Most likely. Would he load the gold onto the truck? Probably not, considering the situation. So thirty minutes, tops.
Sure enough, less than an hour later she heard the thrum of an approaching vehicle and saw the Toyota swing around a curve in the road, blurred by the swirl of accompanying dust.
Two people sat inside.
And no black tarp in the truck bed as it rushed by.
The time was approaching 9:00 A.M.
She emerged from the woods and hopped into Morse’s truck.
* * *
Cotton wasn’t sure how to take what the chief justice had said. “Why do you think I know anything about that key?”
“Angus Adams is your ancestor. I was hoping there were family stories.”
“There were. But not about the Knights of the Golden Circle or any skeleton key.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but two could play the quiet game.
“We know that Adams moved west after the war,” Weston said. “We think it was intentional. Both the Confederate and the Union claimed ownership over the Southwest. Early in the war the Confederacy waged an ambitious New Mexico campaign, trying to open up unrestricted access to California.”
Which he knew from reading.
“That covert reconnoiter Adams did back during the 1854 Smithsonian expedition, at Jefferson Davis and the Order’s request, was utilized by the Confederacy to wage that war,” Weston said.
That, he did not know.
“His journal provided a wealth of geographic information and local knowledge. Unfortunately, Confederate influence in the New Mexico territory ended after the Battle of Glorieta Pass, in 1862. In 1865 Adams went west. But not before he visited the Smithsonian on January 24. The day of the great fire.”
He listened as Weston told him how Adams smuggled himself into the capital that day to make a delivery.
“Jefferson Davis feared that once Richmond fell, the Union army would destroy all the Confederate records. Nothing would survive the war, and he did not want the history of the South written by the victors. So he ordered the most important documents hidden. He wanted them to go to the Smithsonian, believing that was the best place to preserve them. Davis and Joseph Henry were close friends. He would have trusted Henry to do the right thing. But those records never made it here and have never surfaced.”
“Is that also what you’re after?”
“We’re not actually after anything,” Weston made clear. “Diane Sherwood started this by using Martin Thomas to access our restricted archives. We’re merely investigating that breach.”
“You keep telling yourself that and you might actually start to believe it.”
“Might I tell you a story?” Weston asked, seemingly ignoring his insult.
“Why not.”
He listened as Weston explained what happened the day of the great fire. Adams had come to bring the key to Joseph Henry and retrieve his 1854 field journal, which the Smithsonian still possessed. But the fire intervened, along with a Union officer, who’d been sent to thwart Adams’ mission.
“Adams managed to escape with both the key and the journal,” Weston said. “There were questions afterward, but Joseph Henry’s close relationship with Lincoln prevented anything of ever coming of it.” Weston paused, as if gathering himself. “Then, in 1877, Adams visited the Smithsonian again and met with Henry for the last time. The photo you just saw was taken while he was here. On that day he returned his field journal to our collections on loan for seventy-five years, then it was to be returned to his family. We have a record of the journal coming in that day, but not one of it ever leaving. We thought perhaps it might have been returned unrecorded, and survived in your family.”
“Rick mentioned this earlier. But nothing like that was at my family’s home in Georgia. And my grandfather never mentioned anything about a journal. He spoke of Adams, but nothing on that subject.”
And unfortunately, his grandfather had been gone a long time, his grand-uncles likewise dead.
“Let’s return to that civil war we had here at the Smithsonian,” Weston said. “In 1973 Frank Breckinridge lodged a formal ethics complaint against Davis Layne, one the secretary at the time had to investigate. Breckinridge claimed Layne had breached our internal rules for personal gain. The investigation proved inconclusive, but Layne and Breckinridge emerged from the battle bitter enemies.”
“Relations between the Castle and the American history museum were still frosty a decade later,” Stamm said, “when I became curator. It took a lot of work to ease those tensions, though both men were long gone.”
“You told me Layne is dead. What about Frank Breckinridge?”
“He lives not far from here,” Weston said.
He got the message.
The chief justice wanted him to go there.
“I need an address.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Cassiopeia stayed back and followed the Toyota pickup using a loose tail. Its driver seemed unconcerned. Just a casual pace, right at the speed limit, not drawing any attention. Proctor had surely wanted to handle all of this under the cover of darkness, but her appearance at the mine had clearly thrown off his schedule.
They were headed back toward town, on the same state highway that eventually led to the lodge. She’d told Terry Morse to take Lea and stay out of sight until she returned. Her best route to Proctor was the two guys in the truck ahead of her, and
she intended to play this lead out. Her cell phone remained without reception. At the first opportunity, she would call Cotton, tell him about what was happening, and find out about Stephanie.
A sign indicated that they were entering town, the speed limit gradually reduced. A river ran right through the middle of the business district, the quaint row buildings fronting the wide street all of brick and wood. Mainly cafés, gift shops, a grocer, and sporting goods, clustered together like meat on a skewer. Everything seemed to cater to tourism and outdoor recreational activities. Bed-and-breakfast inns dominated. The Toyota was parked on the street in an angled space before one of them.
The driver hopped from the pickup and headed off down the sidewalk, leaving the injured man inside. Bushy trees lined the sidewalks, and bright geraniums filled sill boxes. People were already out for the day, the town buzzing with life. The driver headed straight for a diner, this one occupying the ground floor of a three-story brick building. A plate-glass window announced SOUTHERN BITS & BITES.
She parked down the street from the bed-and-breakfast, stuffed the gun she’d retrieved in the mine into her jean pocket, and draped her shirttail for concealment. She then made her way down the sidewalk, opposite the diner, using parked cars for cover. She passed the diner and kept going, before crossing the street, then backtracking toward it. A peek through that plate-glass window would be good, but the front door was half glass, too. Approaching, she risked a quick look and spotted the driver, sitting at a booth, another man across from him with his back to her.
But she recognized the head and hair.
Proctor.
Apparently having breakfast.
She was deciding what to do when the driver slid from the booth and headed toward the door. She retreated to the shop next door and watched from a recessed doorway as the man emerged, turned, and headed back to where the Toyota waited.
She eased out of the shop and hustled to the diner’s door, entering, then walking straight for the booth, slipping the gun from her back pocket as she eased onto the bench seat opposite Proctor, who glanced up from his food, no look of surprise on his face.
