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But drawing closer.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Diane surveyed the scene before her. A woman, about her age, lying in a hospital bed, tubes and wires in and out of her. The former president of the United States stood beside the bed, glaring at her with a look she did not appreciate.
“Is this why your marriage failed?” she asked Daniels. “You chastised me? Judged me? But you’re no better.”
“I never said I was.”
She aimed the gun straight at him. The woman in the bed reached out with her hand and grasped Danny’s arm in a loving gesture, one that signaled a silent desire to stand with him. She had no such comforts. No one stood with her.
“I never realized how sick you really are,” Daniels said.
“I would have been fine if you’d stayed out of my business. But you couldn’t do that. You’re such a damn hypocrite. Just like Alex. Both of you are no better than me. I met his mistress, too.”
“And where did that happen?”
“In Alex’s apartment. I found her there, cleaning up, as though she owned the place. I shot her. Twice.”
She enjoyed the shock she saw on Daniels’s face.
“Did you kill her?”
She shrugged. “I hope so.”
* * *
Danny had a healthy respect for the gun aimed at him, since its holder was clearly disturbed. No telling what she might do. Hearing that Taisley had been shot ripped his gut. A lot of people were paying a heavy price for all that was happening. He needed to see about her. But he felt Stephanie’s hand clasped to his right wrist, the alternating pressure in her grip telling him, Be careful, don’t be foolish.
He dare not risk a look down at the bed.
Instead he kept his gaze locked on the crazy woman.
With a gun.
* * *
Diane said, “My father was a great man. He was smart and highly respected. He headed one of the finest museums of the world. On his deathbed he asked me to finish what he started.”
“Looking for the vault?”
“The knights talk like that gold belongs to them. It doesn’t. They were common thieves. That treasure belongs to whoever finds it.”
“A man is dead because of that treasure. Stephanie is lying here, in this bed, thanks to that treasure. Another woman may be dead in Alex’s apartment. Hasn’t enough blood been spilled?”
She resented his moralizing. “This is about you and me.”
Daniels nodded. “I get that. You murdered Alex.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“I watched the video. I suspect you have, too.”
She wondered about the comment. “The knights contacted you?”
“Oh, yes. I talked to the commander himself, who told me all about you and Alex. They’ve been watching you both. Then he showed me the video. There was no need to kill him.”
“You and Alex are just alike,” she said, voice rising. “Both so smug in your positions of power, accustomed to people jumping when you speak. Alex was a fool. Just like you. Neither one of you ever took a tough stand in your life.”
He seemed to resent the insult. “I was twice president.”
“And what did you accomplish? What will history record of Danny Daniels’ time in the White House? How many compromises did you make to get what you wanted? How many interests did you appease?”
“Enough to get the job done.”
His lack of fear infuriated her.
“And enough to find my friend’s killer.”
* * *
Danny had no intention of backing down. If this nut shot him, then so be it. But he had not forgotten Stephanie’s warning of just a few minutes ago about it hurting. So avoiding that would be better. “Diane, this is all over. Don’t make it worse.”
“Screw you, Danny. And screw those damn knights. My father hated them, and so do I.”
“Then why wear a cross and circle?”
“That was my brother’s idea. He wanted us all to feel part of the great movement. Of course, women were never allowed as knights. We were too stupid. Too delicate. Too precious to be involved. I’m sure it’s the same even today. An all-boys club. But it was me who taught Vance what to do.”
Stephanie’s grip on his arm tightened and he agreed with her. Diane was rapidly losing control of what few faculties remained.
“What are you going to do about Vance?” Diane asked.
“He’ll be stopped. This morning.”
“Not if you’re dead.”
And his respect for the gun multiplied. This woman had killed once. Maybe twice. Why not again? He’d never cared for her. She’d always been distant and sullen. The one time she did approach him for a favor—to have Alex elevated to the Supreme Court—he’d refused. But through all of that he’d never suspected the depth of her instability, the breadth of her resentment, and the height of her ambition. She was clearly willing to do anything to accomplish her goal. She chastised him for compromise. But her version of “standing your ground” was to murder her opponent. Unfortunately, that option had never been available to him.
“I hate you,” she spit out. “I hate you with every fiber in my being.”
But he saw something in the eyes, something that contradicted her words. “No, you don’t hate us.”
Her pupils flashed hot.
“You hate yourself.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Cassiopeia was led across a rope bridge that spanned a swiftly moving shallow river about twenty meters wide. The sun had risen enough to brighten the other bank, where she could see a stone tower rising above the treetops. It sat on a rise, three other sets of ruins below and off to the left. Once back on solid land, they climbed the rise to the tower and she saw the ruin of what had once been a large adobe church. The whine in the distance persisted, and she wondered about its source. Her three captors seemed to ignore it, the older Breckinridge focused on the ruins. The walls still stood, the windows devoid of glass, the front door gone. Some of a wooden roof remained, and she spotted more recent attempts at shoring up from lumber formed into braces.
“Pasto al Norte,” the older man said.
Her Spanish was excellent. Shepherd of the North.
“This church has been
here a long time,” Breckinridge said. “But it once had another name. La Capilla del Psalms. The Chapel of the Psalms.”
She checked its orientation and saw that it did indeed sit on the north side of the river. “Does this connect with the stones?”
“You know about those?” he asked.
“I saw the Witch’s Stone and was told there are four more.”
“Grant, if you please.”
The younger man removed his backpack. Inside, wrapped in a towel, was a heart-shaped stone with etchings similar to what she’d seen in Arkansas. The older man studied the carvings, which she saw were on both sides.
“This is the Heart Stone, one of the five. It’s vital to finding the vault since, without it, you’d wander these mountains for decades looking for the end point.”
The old man slammed the stone down hard to the ground, atop a scab of exposed rock that poked from the dry earth.
It shattered into dust and pieces.
With the sole of his shoe he pummeled the larger bits into gravel.
* * *
Grant was in shock. He’d been hoping his father would have a change of mind. “You just said without that stone, no one can find the vault. How do you ever plan to do that?”
“I don’t. Not right now, anyway. But I’ll make arrangements for others to be able to find it.”
“You know where it is?”
His father nodded. “Of course. I’m its sentinel. And as I said, son, your greed is why you can never be one of us. We’re caretakers. Nothing more. That gold is not ours to take.”
He’d had enough. “That gold is for whoever gets it first.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” his father said. “The knights have always, and will always, protect it from people like you.”
“You had no intention of paying me anything.”
“Not at all.”
Now he knew why he’d been brought along, and he was in a quandary. No weapon. Out in the middle of nowhere with another man toting an automatic rifle. The woman could be an ally, since she probably had no idea who he was or what he’d done. Which he might be able to use to his advantage long enough to secure his freedom.
