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“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.
