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He reached down and gathered a handful of the loose rock, his ears ringing with excitement. “You dig a pit down into the bedrock about four or five feet, then up, at a forty-five-degree angle under the boulder, making a pivot point. Gravel gets filled in the pit and under the boulder. As you can see, most of the boulder extends over the gravel pit. The whole thing is a giant lure.”
“That it is,” Weston said. “Someone not fully aware would start digging, thinking the stone marked the entrance. I’m guessing that once they dug down just a little ways, on the underside of the rock, they’d see carvings or symbols. They mean nothing, put there simply to entice them to keep digging. And they would.”
“Until they dug enough to release the gravel under the rock, which acts like ball bearings, with gravity providing a big assist,” Cotton said. “Then over the killer monument comes, sliding down, doing its damage. A perfect trap that doesn’t get worn out with time. And look at this.”
He pointed at a roughly hewn cross, cut deeply into the face of the boulder’s underside. And the letter N. Neither was a freak of nature, the chisel marks clear. “Adams wanted people to dig on this side. But it’s a death trap.”
“So where’s the entrance?’ Cassiopeia asked.
He recalled the Horse Stone and what was below the tail. A double bump. The square U meant an entrance.
But two U’s had been placed together.
Which meant a double entrance.
Another random piece of the puzzle that meant nothing until it meant everything.
“Simple,” he said. “On the other side.”
* * *
Cotton lit the fuse and ran away for the third time. The second explosion had cracked the massive heart. This one should turn the thing to rubble.
And it did.
He retrieved two more shovels and they all headed back up the slope. He, Cassiopeia, and Daniels dug. Three feet down his blade scraped hard metal. They kept digging, sweeping away the cloying dust, exposing a rectangular iron door, fitted into the slope like the entrance to a house cellar.
“There are no hinges,” Daniels said.
Together he and Daniels lifted the cover to reveal a dark niche that stretched deep into the slope. Timber supports stood along the walls and ceiling at the opening, along with the telltale signs of miners’ picks. From their packs, each removed a flashlight. Cotton led the way, followed by Cassiopeia.
“You two wait here,” he said to Daniels and Weston. “Let’s make sure it’s clear. There could be more traps, and I don’t need two dead or maimed public officials.”
“We’ll give you five minutes,” Daniels said.
He slipped his backpack onto his shoulders and entered, allowing the beam of his flashlight to lead the way. Each step he took was like being in a minefield. Explosions, water traps, landslides, and cave-ins were all possibilities. Gunpowder could also be a problem, and it could still be potent even after a hundred-plus years.
A total cloaking darkness enveloped them, their combined lights only illuminating a few feet. He could walk fairly upright, only his shoulders brushing the sides. Tight, enclosed spaces were not his favorite, but he could see the entrance behind them and still feel the warm air. He rotated the flashlight from wall, to ceiling, to floor. Anticipation clawed at his gut. It was unlikely that this path would be unprotected.
Then he saw it.
And stopped.
Dug into the floor, spanning the narrow corridor from side to side, was a dark chasm. He approached and shone the light down into a pit. A sheet of thin leather had once sheathed the top, probably covered by a thin layer of earth. Something glittered like a coronet of diamonds from the bottom and, after a moment, he realized what it was.
“They tossed glass shards down there,” he said. “Lots of it, too. You come by, fall in, get shredded. A dead-fall pit.”
Not unlike another trap he recalled from southern France a few years before.
“These people were serious,” she whispered.
That they were.
They jumped across.
Two more pits lay ahead, one with the leather still in place, which they collapsed onto itself.
At the end stood an iron grate with a locked gate.
“The route’s clear. Let’s get them down here,” he said.
Cassiopeia headed back to the entrance while he examined the gate. The ceremonial key had been found on Grant Breckinridge’s body. He fished the key from his pocket and examined it in the light. The lock on the gate seemed to accept a skeleton key, but its inner workings would surely be corroded. Then again, the climate here was dry, the air in the tunnel free of moisture. He could not blow the gate for fear of destroying the tunnel, and it remained sturdy enough to present a barrier.
So why not.
He inserted the key and turned.
Resistance fought back.
He worked it left and right.
The bolt started to move.
Not much, but he could feel some give. Luckily, he’d thought ahead and, from his backpack, he removed a can of lubricant. The key itself had suggested there might be a lock to deal with at some point, so any help he could give the inner workings would not be a bad thing.
He removed the key and doused the keyhole full of spray.
From behind, he heard the others approaching.
With the key back in, he worked the lock.
More spray.
Finally, the bolt freed.
The others arrived as he was swinging the gate open.
“The ceremonial key worked?” Weston asked.
He nodded. “That and some WD-40 did the job.”
The tunnel extended only for another ten feet, draining into what appeared to be a large room.
“Let’s take this slow,” he said. “As you saw, there’s danger here.”
He led the way, finding no more traps.
The others followed.
Combined, their four flashlights illuminated a chamber about thirty feet square and ten feet high. It seemed a natural cave, its size perhaps artificially enlarged, the floor
covered in loose soil. Wooden containers of all shapes and sizes and large burlap sacks lay everywhere. Too many to count. All iced with a thick layer of dust and dirt and arranged in a circle around a single table at the chamber’s center.
Upon which sat a wooden box.
“Welcome to the vault,” he muttered.
“This is amazing,” Weston said. “The Order was always comfortable underground, figuratively and literally.”
“If all those containers are filled with gold and silver, there’s billions of dollars’ worth here,” Daniels said.
Cotton examined the ground between where they stood and the nearest container. It seemed solid. He stepped ahead, one foot before the other, slow and easy. He approached one of the rawhide sacks and brushed away the dust. He found his pocketknife and cut loose the leather thong tied around the top. The contents spilled to the ground.
Gold pieces, coins, and small bars.
“Quite a sight,” Daniels said.
He’d brought a small crowbar, hoping he might get to use it. He found the tool, pried open one of the crates, and saw a bright mass of more gold bars. He lifted one out. Solid and heavy.
“Look there,” Cassiopeia said.
He followed her beam and saw a small forge and smelter. He approached and worked the bellows arm. The stiff leather cracked from the unaccustomed pressure. “It seems Adams thought of everything. He did his own smelting, right here.”
“What are those?” Daniels asked.
Cotton had not noticed the steamer trunks. But it was hard to take it all in, like on Christmas morning when you rushed downstairs to see what Santa had left, toys everywhere filling your eyes. There were twenty or more of the old trunks. He led the way over to them and opened one.
Inside were stacked with paper, ledgers, and books.
“It’s the Confederate archive,” Weston said. “The Order was charged with its safekeeping. Hopefully the Order’s records are here, too. They haven’t been seen since 1865.”
