Crown of Serpents (15 page)

Stanton shook her head. “A please would be nice, Mr. Rousseau.”

Kenny Rousseau rolled his eyes. A half-Mohawk, half-French Canadian, he was the epitome of a bull headed thug, but one of Nero’s closest confidants too. Dressed in an expensive dark blue suit with a High Point Mountain Casino and Resort logo embroidered on his breast pocket, the head man led her to Nero’s office just down the hall on the left. He wore his black hair in a long braided ponytail and she could tell by the bulge in his coat he carried some type of weapon. They all did here.

As she strode behind him, placing her eyeglasses on, she looked down the hallway to the elevator entrance back up to the main casino floor. Another bodyguard stood there, dressed and looking the same as Rousseau. He received a nod from Rousseau. Arriving at Nero’s office door they were greeted by a grotesque false-face medicine mask hanging on the front. Hand-carved from hardwood, the dark red painted mask screamed in captured agony, its mouth a gaping black hole, its bulging eyes colored yellow, and its hawk-like nose twisted and bent. White hair draped over its sharp, high cheekbones.

Rousseau knocked twice. Stanton heard an electronic unlocking mechanism click to allow them access. “Get in there,” whispered Rousseau. “He’s pissed off as it is. The cancer is even worse than they thought.”

Stanton sighed. That means he’d be doubly degrading to her. It was late and all she wanted was to get back home to Kingston, not deal with more of his abuse. But maybe she should show some sympathy — after all he
was
dying. She pushed the door open and stepped inside the lavish subterranean office of Alex Nero.

On a slate floor stood custom-crafted wood, glass, and leather furniture dotting the spacious room. The furniture shared an aesthetic pattern derived from various North American snakes. A chieftain’s headdress, crowned with buck antlers and eagle feathers sat atop one of the tables as a centerpiece. Lit with warm spotlights, several portraits of Iroquois warriors lined the smooth rock walls in an eerie glow. Tomahawks, knives, bows, arrows, war hammers, rifles, pistols, and swords hung between each painting. And among all the artifacts sat her boss behind his large mahogany desk. Surprisingly, she thought, he wore a melancholy look on his face. At least he’s not smoking another damn cigar, she thought.

“Mr. Nero, I’ve got that follow-up report on that Indian grave case.”

Nero waved her over to take a seat across from him. As she approached, he gingerly closed a very old leather booklet and placed it inside a worn box of the same deteriorating material.

“Would those be the Thomas Boyd items you acquired at Fort Niagara?” she asked eyeing the old box.

Nero smiled. “Indeed they are young lady. Indeed they are. You did very well in setting up that meeting. As if it was preordained.”

Stanton adjusted her posture upright. “Thank you sir.” What’s with all the accolades lately, she thought. Is the cancer actually bringing him back down to earth? She then noticed two maps open across his desktop. One was of Seneca County and another a blueprint of the Seneca Army Depot that dominated the same area where the Indian grave accident had occurred.

Nero placed a hand on top of the leather box and patted it softly. “The journal in here happens to contain some key historical information that may pertain to that Indian grave and broach that was discovered this morning. But first I’d like to hear your report.” He leaned back into his high-backed luxury leather chair.

Stanton raised her eyebrows at the revelation, then cleared her throat, and crossed her legs. “Certainly. First off, I tried to arrange a personal visit for you tomorrow to view the broach, but was turned down by the state police investigator — a Miss Rae Hart. She’s the one handling the case.”

Nero uttered a gritty, sandpaper cough. “Spell her last name?”

“H-A-R-T. Why? Do you know her?”

Nero’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll ask the questions.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Go on.”

“Well,” said Stanton, tiredly. “I let her know that I represented the head of the Burial Rules Committee, but she still needed some more time before scheduling a meeting. Said she had to consult a Cornell archeologist first.”

“Miss Stanton,” said Nero. “As you know, my time is short. Make the meeting happen with her before any of those academic liberal do-gooders come snooping around.”

“With all due respect sir, we may not need the meeting. I managed to come across some video stills showing the actual broach. It was posted on a news web site.”

Nero leaned forward and glared in Stanton’s weary eyes. “This hit the news? It went public?”

She extracted a color copy from her folder and handed it across the desk to him. “Unfortunately, yes. Competition to acquire the piece will now increase. The picture is pretty grainy, but it’s not a bad close-up. You can clearly make out the engraved outline of a doe—“

Nero studied the print in depth. His smile reappeared. “A buck.”

“Right. A buck. And what seems to me to be a snake form inside of its body.”

“Ah yes, it sure is,” he said, his grin growing wider.

Stanton looked at him funny. She had never seen him so giddy. Was there something she was missing?

Nero looked back down at the color copy. His smile was gone. “Where is this broach actually being kept at the moment?”

“At a state trooper station in Kendaia. Probably in the evidence lock up room.”

“Kendaia?” Nero stated, an inquisitive look on his face. “Interesting. Most interesting.”

“Want to hear how the actual accident took place?”

“Sure.”

Stanton read the entire accident report from a printed transcript obtained on the news web site. She finished up with, “… and the motorist who tried to rescue the victim was identified as, ah, as a Major R.J. Tununda of the U.S. Army. He’s a traveling historian with the Army’s Military History Institute. He happened to—.”

Behind the color copy Nero flashed his teeth in anger. “Tununda. Our paths cross again.”

“Excuse me?”

He lowered the paper. “I want a background check on him. Go on with your story.”

Great, she thought, more digging up dirt on other people. It was the part of her job she liked the least. Nero had her do it on many occasions as she had all the right contacts and knew where to extract public information on the fly. She shrugged her shoulders and finished reading the article. She even offered to pinpoint the general location of the accident site in Cranberry Marsh explaining that the investigator declined to give out the GPS coordinates.

But Nero already knew where the marsh was, his eyes falling on the Seneca County map. He tapped the spot on the map to the north east of the Depot. “Up here.”

“Correct.” She then pointed south of the hamlet of Kendaia, down near the Depot’s airfield on the southwest corner of the base. “And here’s where the broach is being kept. The Trooper’s station lies between the runway and Route 96A.”

“Ah, such coincidence cannot be missed, Miss Stanton. Did you know that our friend Boyd here,” explained Nero, tapping the leather box, “passed through that same village of Kendaia in the year 1779?”

“Really?”

He nodded, then circled the lands to the east of Kendaia — the Depot, with its east-to-west parallel roads containing hundreds of ammo bunkers. “Yes, and here lies a secret somewhere under this former Army base that our Mr. Boyd knew about. It’s linked to that symbol on the broach. And now all the land inside of the Depot will soon be mine to crack this mystery.”

He snatched up his cell phone and placed a call to his lawyer. He allowed Stanton to listen in as he increased the purchase price on the Depot lands on condition the county close the deal within the next few days.

Stanton wondered why her hands shook. Nero ended the call, fumbling with the cell phone keys then turned back to his collection’s director.

“Starting tomorrow morning you will be conducting special research for me based on information gleaned from the Thomas Boyd journal.”

She took off and pocketed her eyeglasses. “Yes sir.”

“It is a plethora of clues that I’m putting my trust in you to solve. When you do, it will lead to a prize that my Onondaga people have long coveted. It will be the greatest discovery of our lives, my dear. It will make you incredibly rich and famous. That is of course if you accept this task.”

Stanton’s brows creased. She fidgeted in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Well, of course sir. It’s part of my job.”

“No, this task requires your complete loyalty. There is no turning back once you accept. You will become a member of this family, and once you are in, there is no backing out. You understand?”

“Completely sir. I’m not dumb and you know that. I knew what I was getting into when I decided I wanted to work for you. So, yes, I do accept. No question.”

“Very well Miss Stanton. To whet your appetite as to the prize we are seeking, I’d like you to join me in the Scalp Room.” He rose from his chair and motioned to a doorway behind him. On that door hung a scalp stretched on a wooden hoop. “Come. Let me show you.”

Upon entering Nero’s highly coveted inner chamber, Stanton’s head turned on a swivel. She had only been in there one other time, upon her hire. It still amazed her that these war trophies once belonged to actual people. And it also truly sickened her.

Displayed in various shapes, sizes, hair colors, hair patterns and lengths, the collection of centuries-old scalps were all mounted on small wooden hoops with the skin stretched over like a tambourine. Most of the hairpieces looked neat and combed while others had deteriorated with age. Each had an accompanying wall plaque explaining the time period they had originated from, information about the victim, and the circumstances surrounding their taking. Some were even dated back to the Beaver Wars of the 16th century although most originated from the French and Indian War and the American War for Independence. There were hundreds.

Stanton shook her head. “I still can’t believe how many there are.”

“With the addition of Thomas Boyd’s scalp the count comes to three hundred and thirty three.”

The two walked to the front of the rock walled chamber where a stone table and a large hand-carved chair sat. The chair reminded her of an emperor’s throne, perfect for a man whose ego led him to name himself after one of the most brutal dictator’s in all of history. She even took notice that the same snake design pattern, most prominent in his office, had carried over into his seat.

Nero motioned to the corner of the room, allowing Stanton to proceed in front of him. Stanton flinched and her eyes widened. A life-sized silver bust of a ferocious looking Iroquois warrior-shaman mounted on a column sat under a recessed yellow spotlight. The sculpture’s hair was formed of long silver snakes reflecting brightly under the display light. And jutting out of the snake-infested head ornament was a set of buck’s antlers and eagle feathers.

“Do you know who this is?” asked Nero in a scratchy voice. He stood by Stanton’s side.

Stanton brushed her fingers along her chin and thought for a moment. “I would have to say, based on the snakes in his hair and the headpiece depicting an important chief that this might be Atotarho, the ancient leader of the Onondaga. Am I right?”

“You know your history well,” smiled Nero, admiring the piece. “It is a representation of my blood descendant, the Onondaga shaman Atotarho. The sculptor finished it and installed it just last week in the middle of the night.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Nero replied, “Priced at a few million, it should be.” He then walked over to his throne chair and sat down. “Truly an amazing display of noble savagery wouldn’t you say?”

“
That
, is an accurate description,” replied Stanton, still standing in front of Atotarho’s bust. She reached out and lightly stroked the snakes.

Nero watched the young woman touch the piece, then spoke. “On his head he wore an elaborate crown of silver serpents. Some think the crown was merely an allegory – a symbol of his wisdom and power. I happen to think his crown actually existed.”

Stanton’s jaw dropped. She turned and looked at her boss.

“That crown, Miss Stanton,” he pointed, “is what we’re after. And I’ve concluded it’s hidden somewhere under the Seneca Army Depot. Thus my pending purchase of the property.”

“Holy–”

“Of course I expect you to keep this information confidential.”

“Absolutely sir. You think this crown really exists?”

“I do. And you’re going to find it for me. If it’s the last thing I see on this earth. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early. We’ll talk more then.” He ushered her away.

A weak-kneed Stanton composed herself and made for the door. All she could utter was a simple, “Yes sir.”

11

Same time. Tonawanda Reservation.

L
IZZIE ASKED JOE to make some tea as she knew her throat would irritate her once she began telling the story. As Joe heated water in her kitchen, Lizzie closed her eyes and relaxed her body before beginning.

With eyes still shut, she started. “What I am about to reveal to you are deeply held secrets. You are under privilege from me as the elder Faithkeeper. I’m giving you this information for you to act on only because it was you who has been approached. Now, I shall begin.”