Crown of Serpents (12 page)

Jake stood dumbfounded. He felt as if he had just gotten his foot on the playing field at the Super Bowl only to have his legs cut out from underneath him. The profound sense of loss was immediate and deep. In fact, this was the second strike today, he thought. He was too late in rescuing the trapped victim and now a major historical discovery was squandered before his eyes. Murphy certainly threw his track off now! He shuffled over to a window and rested his hands on the ledge, drooping his head and letting out a sigh. He peered out across the drill yard and soon watched Hibbard walk back to South Redoubt to disappear under the gatehouse.

After a minute of stunned silence he held his head high knowing what needed to be done. Exiting the castle he quickly headed back across the empty grounds only to find one of Nero’s suits turning the corner from the gatehouse and walking directly toward him. Jake instinctively knew something was up. This guy’s pace advertised he meant business.

When they met in the middle of the drill yard, near the old cannon, Jake noticed it was same tattoo-eyed pit bull bodyguard from earlier. As he approached Jake he asked in a gruff voice if he was the Major.

“No, I just dress in Army uniforms for shits and giggles,” replied Jake, sidestepping the ruffian without losing his stride.

“Hold up there, buddy.”

Jake increased his pace.

“I got a message from Mr. Nero.” A large hand then clutched Jake’s left shoulder to spin him around.

The instant the bodyguard’s hand grabbed him Jake clamped down on it with his right hand, and bent his assailant’s wrist outward in one quick motion. The man tried to pull away but Jake moved like a cat and had already cranked the thug’s arm behind his back. Now standing behind him with his left hand squeezing the man’s opposite shoulder for support, Jake jammed the man’s arm up the middle of his back to the point of breakage. The man cursed in agony and dropped to his knees in front of the cannon.

“No one touches me, punk,” Jake seethed in his ear. “And I’m in a real pissy mood today so what’s your message?”

“Ease off! Ease off! You’re gonna break my goddamn arm.”

Jake loosened the arm slightly but repeated his question.

“Mr. Nero wants to talk to you. He’s in the parking lot. He just needs a minute of your time, okay? You win.”

Jake dropped the arm and gave him a shove. “You really shouldn’t touch the merchandise,” he snickered. “You haven’t earned the right.” He then jogged off towards the gatehouse.

The kneeling bodyguard took a moment to gather his composure then realized his target had disappeared into the tunnel up ahead. He jumped up to catch him.

Jake’s battlefield tactics kicked in. Before approaching hostile territory, a thorough reconnaissance always proved beneficial. When he first entered under the South Redoubt gatehouse with Hibbard he remembered thinking from a military standpoint it offered a heightened view outside of the fort’s walls — a perfect sharpshooter’s position. Now it would act as a simple observatory to what this Nero fellow might be up to in the parking lot. Next to the ticket taker’s window was a steep stairwell leading to the upper levels. He scrambled up the steps and reached the guardroom, checked a musket port to see the trailing bodyguard running his way from the parade ground, then bounded up the next set of stairs to the roofed look-out platform.

Just beyond the outer walls and earthworks, in the parking lot, a long black limousine caught Jake’s eagle eyes. Nero’s other bodyguard stood outside the vehicle glancing back and forth. That man then approached Jake’s parked SUV, stood behind it, bent down for a moment out of sight, stood up then wrote something down on a piece of paper. It looked like the guy was taking his plate number, Jake thought. The bodyguard then approached an open window in the rear of the limo and spoke to a gray-haired man Jake recognized as Nero. They both turned and noticed their counterpart exiting the fort. Clown Face shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands in the air then walked up to the limo. The other guy jumped into the limo and drove it forward, blocking Jake’s SUV in.

Not one to be toyed with, Jake bounded down the gatehouse stairs and double-timed it to Nero’s vehicle. The tattoo-eyed bodyguard stood at the rear, glaring at him as he approached. The driver remained behind the wheel. Jake walked up to the closed rear window and with his fist rapped loudly on the glass.

The power window dropped halfway and Nero peered out.

Jake spoke first. “Mr. Nero I presume? Your little puppet here said you had a message for me. Make it quick, and move your ride because I’ve got a tight schedule to keep.”

“A tad ticked off are we Major?” replied Nero in a raspy voice.

“Flash enough cash and the little old ladies just drop their panties for you,” stated Jake, slinging his laptop tote behind his back while folding his arms across his chest.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” replied Nero with a bit of a grin. His eyes darted behind Jake as his lead enforcer walked up stretching out his arm and shoulder.

Jake glanced back and smirked. The thug’s face turned red.

“So, as you know I now own the Boyd Box.”

Jake remained quiet, not sure what this character wanted from him.

Nero cleared his throat. “I just want to talk to you.”

“So talk,” Jake fired back.

“The director informed me you were the only other person beside herself that viewed the contents of the journal. I understand you even took pictures of every single page.”

“That is correct,” Jake answered. “Part of my governmental duties.”

“Well, this concerns me greatly,” said Nero, his voice harsher. “I would now like to sincerely ask you to immediately delete those pictures you have of my property. It’s a simple matter of copyright infringement.”

Jake laughed. “Copyright infringement? You’re joking, right? Listen, I don’t know who the hell you are, but …”

“Excuse me, Major. You listen very closely,” Nero snapped back, pointing a finger at him. “My sincerity was a one-time offer. Do not play hardball with me.”

Jake noticed Clown Face inching closer. The driver also exited the limo.

“Hand over your camera now and we’ll be on our way. No questions asked,” ordered Nero in a deep tone.

“Go screw yourself. You’re not touching government property. And tell your driver to move this hunk of shit out of the way. My business is finished here.”

Nero flicked his head. The thug behind Jake grunted to catch his attention. Clown Face opened his coat to reveal the handle of a black pistol in his waistband. The driver, having already walked around the back of the vehicle, also showed off his weapon.

Jake’s blood boiled as he sized up the situation. An escape plan started to develop but quickly fizzled as Nero displayed a Glock 9 mm and pointed it at Jake’s chest.

“Give me the camera and you get to live another day of being an Army of one,” said Nero. “Try anything funny and I’ll tie a concrete block around your neck and dump your body in the Niagara River.”

Jake’s eyes locked with Nero’s and he knew in an instant this guy meant what he said. Nero’s eyes seemed a window to his soul — and what stood on the other side rattled him.

Suddenly Jake remembered he had a copy of every journal page image transferred from his camera onto his laptop. “You win, hotshot. I’m going to reach in my bag for the camera. Put the weapon down. I’m cool.”

Nero kept the pistol raised as Jake fished out his digital camera and tossed it through the window. Nero placed his weapon on the seat next to him, picked up the camera and turned it on to review the photos.

He erased everything.

He then took out the tiny memory card and broke it in half, dropping one half of the card and the camera on the pavement at Jake’s feet. Then with a crude smile, he snapped his fingers. The window motored up and both thugs walked to the other side of the limo to get in. In a moment the vehicle screeched away, leaving Jake standing in a cloud of gray smoke from burnt rubber.

A vein throbbed in his forehead.

Just then, his phone rang. He snatched it out of his coat pocket and punched the talk button.

“Tununda here!”

“Major? What’s wrong? You sound alarmed.” It was Dr. Ashland.

“Damn right,” Jake said, picking up his camera and inspecting it for damage. “Some asshole with a Roman emperor’s name of Nero just purchased the Boyd Box from underneath our noses. Walked out with all of it.”

“Alex Nero, the Indian billionaire? He bought it all? He was there?”

“Yes, the Indian. You know this guy?” The camera turned on fine and functioned properly. Jake placed it in his briefcase.

“Not personally, but I’ve read quite a bit on him. He’s the Chief and CEO of the Onondaga Nation and was just voted in as the Head Chief of the Grand Council of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, not to mention being the owner of High Point.”

“Oh. And what is High Point?” Jake quietly replied, somewhat embarrassed his new boss from California knew more about Iroquois happenings than he did.

“The gambling resort in the Catskills. Nero is one very powerful casino magnate. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him?” said Ashland in a condescending tone.

“I don’t follow Native American politics, nor gamble for that matter.”

“Jake, I meant that he owns the most extensive private Iroquois artifact collection in the world. It’s called the Haudenosaunee Collection. I’m really surprised, since you both are Native American,” Ashland chided.

“Give me a break already. A few things like Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq kind of got in my way of keeping track of who has the largest arrowhead set. Did you get my e-mail?”

“Sorry. Yes. Quite astonishing isn’t it?”

“Yes, and gone too. All of the items, Butler’s letter, the journal. They contained so much incredible history that needs to be investigated. And the cipher codes, the illustrations. We could have had a shot at owning it but Nero bullied his way in and flashed his cash. I won’t let this happen. There’s something we can do.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“In that September 12th journal entry I e-mailed you, I think I can identify who Boyd was talking about when he referred to the other half of the code being hidden in his craft brother’s trade tool. I’m pretty sure he was referring to his sergeant, a Sean McTavish. They were Brothers in the Freemasons and that’s how fellow members refer to each other.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Now, if we can track down genealogical records of this McTavish and what his trade tool is, then that’s where the second half of that odd lettering is. Maybe we can then decipher the whole message. Which would lead us straight to Boyd’s buried war loot and then onto General Sullivan’s sunken cannon of gold! We can make a positive out of this negative loss. We can make history out of this whole ordeal. It’s what our mission at MHI is. All of our discoveries will belong to the institute. Do you know what this will do for public relations? Plus we’d screw Nero in the end.”

Jake waited for a response but none came. There was a long pause. “You there?”

“Slow down there Indiana Jones,” Ashland said with a condescending chuckle. “You want to go off on some wild treasure hunt? What is this, a sequel to the movie
National Treasure
? You want to screw Alex Nero too? First of all, your reaction is quite inappropriate to want to screw over one of the most powerful men in our field. MHI doesn’t need this headache and quite frankly, neither do I. The Boyd Box is gone. It was bought fair and square. Let’s just accept it and let it go. We win some we lose some. It’s the nature of the business. Now, I’ve got to make a phone call to the director to break the bad news. You just take it easy. Get some rest, okay? You’ve had a long day.” Ashland trailed off, wanting to end the conversation.

“W-what?” said Jake, stunned at Ashland’s rebuke. “The deal was not square. Nero snatched it before anyone else could place an assessment on it. He bent the rules and we will too. My God. We’ve got all the clues at our fingertips. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for a historian and you just want to cut and run and appease him by saying we win some, we lose some?”

“Insubordination!” Ashland blurted. “You may have cut the corners on the battlefield Major, but you will
not
break the rules under my watch. MHI is on a new bus ride to excellence under my supervision and you have to make the decision whether you want to be a passenger on that bus or leave your seat for someone else. I am ordering you to LEAVE IT ALONE.”

Jake fumed inside. He had enough of the politically correct clichés. “Oh, grow some balls for Chris-sake!”

His boss gasped. The phone clicked dead.

“Ah, Jake, you stupid hothead,” he scolded himself. And now another stupid phrase his uncle always told him crossed his mind.
Even a fish wouldn’t get caught if he kept his mouth shut.
He had botched his first assessment, put his job in jeopardy, and had a wealthy collector pull a weapon on him and the damn day hadn’t even finished yet. Some icing on the cake this assignment turned out to be.

9

Tonawanda Band of Seneca Indian Reservation, near Akron, N.Y.

P
HONING AHEAD TO his uncle to say he was in the area and stopping by for a visit to unwind, Jake turned off the Thruway at the Pembroke exit and headed north on Route 77 to Indian Falls, the southern entry point into the Tonawanda Band of Seneca Indian Reservation. The waning light of dusk was setting in as he made the left turn near Tonawanda Creek and entered his old stomping grounds. Just up the road, he passed by a state historical marker off the shoulder. Pulling over, he couldn’t help but be drawn in. Gobbling up historical tidbits was a habit he just couldn’t resist.

He had already read this particular marker countless times, but never grew tired of it for it provided the impetus for him joining the ranks of the warrior class. It was one of his historical role models — one of the most famous Seneca Indians his nation had produced and a distant relative to his own clan. Faded yellow text set against a dark blue background told of the log cabin birthplace of Ely Parker, a Seneca Indian who volunteered in the Union Army during the Civil War. Parker had risen in rank to become General Ulysses Grant’s secretary and ultimately helped draft the surrender terms of Confederate General Robert E. Lee at the end the war in 1865. Parker was later commissioned a Brigadier General before retiring from the U.S. Army. Scorned by his tribe for joining the white man’s army, he died a controversial figure in Iroquois history.