Crown of Serpents (33 page)

Jake picked up the wooden map case on the table. Time was running out.

“This contains the map,” said Jake.

“No shit. Open it and show me,” grunted Rousseau.

Jake did as he was ordered, but asked, “Answer me this at least — how’d you find us here? I got rid of your tracking chip back at McDonalds.”

“We’ve been tracking your whereabouts since Fort Niagara, when we first met,” answered Rousseau, with a deformed smile. “It was a hunch you’d be here.”

Jake shook his head, remembering the limo driver in the parking lot bending down out of sight near his SUV. He had thought they were just taking his plate number at the time. And that night he went directly to the reservation, to Joe’s gas mart and then on to this house. They had his travels recorded. He swore to himself, then popped the cap off the map case and turned the tube upside down allowing the old pen and bottle of ink to slide out on the table.

“Speed it up!” barked Rousseau.

Jake reached inside the case and slowly extracted the rolled up map drawing. Unfurling the document, he showed Rousseau, whose eyes lit up.

“Give it to me.”

Jake rolled the map back up, stuffed it in the case, added the pen and ink, and capped it. He then heard a floor board creak in the kitchen. Finally. He kept his eyes glued on Rousseau. In a moment, he heard Jasper re-enter the house closing the front door, announcing he had the gas can.

Rousseau snatched the map case out of Jake’s hands. He stuffed the case inside his jacket. “And I want your camera too.”

Another creak and Rousseau’s head turned and his eyes darted over to the kitchen, taking his aim off Jake’s head for a fraction of a second.

That’s all Jake needed.

His arm went up in a flash and connected with Rousseau’s shooting hand. He knocked the Browning to the side just as a round fired off. The bullet whizzed past Jake’s ear and plunked into the sofa. Jake slammed Rousseau with a hard upper cut in his already-injured jaw. Rousseau lost the grip on his weapon. It clattered to the floor as he staggered backward from the force of Jake’s blow.

Joe sprung into action too. He slammed a fist into Mr. Kay’s nose. Kay grimaced and slammed back against his cohort — the two thugs sandwiched up against the front door, back to chest. The gas can hit the floor with a loud clang. Kay managed to get a wild shot off from his pistol too. The bullet missed Joe and lodged into the wall.

Joe ducked.

Jake dove for the Browning pistol as Rousseau’s big body careened across the room. Rousseau tripped on an Indian drum and smashed heavily into a tall window. It shattered completely. He tumbled backward through the jagged opening and hit the ground outside in a shower of glass shards.

Crouched on one knee with the Browning pistol in hand, Jake swung the weapon toward the other two thugs near his uncle.

A slice of air zipped over Jake’s head.

Boom!

The cannon blast shook the house.

A large hole opened up in Mr. Kay’s chest. Directly behind him, Jasper’s eyes went wide and he screamed. Both men’s legs gave out. The two bodies crumpled to the floor in a heap — pistols still clutched in their hands. Blood and guts smeared down the door. The round that took their lives not only penetrated two bodies, but also blew a large hole through the solid wood front door.

Jake looked back toward the kitchen where the blast originated. Joe followed his gaze. It was a sight they would never forget.

In a shooters pose stood the frail Miss Lizzie. She lowered her smoking, long-barreled .357 Magnum pistol. “Nobody enters my house without knocking first.”

Choo-Choo ran out of hiding and stood by Lizzie’s side. Jake and Joe looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

“Rousseau!” shouted Jake. “He’s got the Beretta. Joe, cover me from the window.”

Joe grabbed Kay’s pistol and made for the window where Rousseau fell out. Jake moved the two bodies and ripped the front door open. He moved quickly outside and crouched over to the corner of the porch, then stopped and gave a quick glance around.

Rousseau had disappeared.

Jake re-emerged inside. “Kill the lights. Check the back door.” He jumped back outside just as the lights went dark inside. He heard footsteps running away. He went to the rear of his truck and opened the back hatch. He stored the Browning pistol in the waistband at the small of his back and grabbed his M4 rifle, flicked on the rifle’s night scope, and placed the lens to his eye. His vision turned to a glowing green and black field. Scanning left and right across Lizzie’s front yard, he caught sight of a bright green silhouetted figure running down the dirt road. The range was about 300 meters away.

Jake popped off a three-round burst and saw Rousseau stumble to his knees. Rousseau clutched his arm. But his target immediately got up and zigzagged off. Another three round burst kicked up the dirt at Rousseau’s feet. The man gained more distance.

“Damn!” Jake lowered his weapon. In an all out sprint, he gave chase.

The footing proved difficult on the dark, uneven surface of the road. Before he knew it, Jake’s ankle twisted in a pothole and he went down hard. He slammed his knee on gravel and crunched both elbows, still clutching the rifle. He scrambled back up and heard a vehicle start up a ways away. He dropped to one knee in a shooters stance, raised his rifle, and peered through the scope. He found what looked like a civilian Hummer from its silhouette. It sped away at a high rate of speed. Jake fired off six rounds and saw a few sparks indicating impact on the back of the Hummer. No effect. He watched the Hummer disappear around a bend.

“Son of a bitch!”

26

Early Thursday morning. East Lake Road. Town of Varick. Seneca County, N.Y.

Y
ANKING HIS HAND back in excruciating pain, the large man clenched his smoke-stained yellow teeth. A muffled obscenity spilled from his mouth. The fresh steak he used as a lure dropped on the grass. He also lost the grip on his mini-flashlight. It too fumbled to the ground. Stumbling backward against the dog pound fence, the man clutched his latex-gloved hand. Blood streamed out of the missing tip of his middle finger.

A white-haired West Highland terrier entered the dropped flashlight beam, showed its bloody teeth, and emitted a low growl from its muzzle. It then spit out the man’s fleshy extreme fingertip, latex still wrapped tightly around it. In a fit of rage, the heavy-set man kicked the dog hard in the mouth. The dog flipped upside down, but immediately got up whimpering and moped back into the flashlight beam, refusing to give ground. It growled again and showed its teeth, taunting the larger man for more. As the man drew back for another kick, the dog emitted a terrifying high-pitched bark.

A light immediately turned on in the main house, not twenty feet away. Several more dogs, roused from their sleep inside, joined in with responsive barks of their own. They soon exited the dog doors from the house and entered the run to back up their pack leader.

The wounded man took a last look at the lead terrier knowing his second dognapping of the place had failed. He should have known better than to return to the scene of his first crime. As he scrambled out of the gate to make his escape, the small dog, still standing in the beam of light, began to howl in victory.

Same time. Tonawanda Reservation.

Jake gave one last sweep of the clan mother’s property with his night scope and rifle. He figured either Kenny Rousseau would return to finish the hit or a cop car would show up from all the gunshots fired. But nothing had stirred for the last ten minutes. The night remained black, quiet and depressing.

Satisfied, he re-entered the house to discuss their next moves. Joe swept glass shards near the window while Miss Lizzie paced back and forth across the living room. She spoke out loud in an ancient Iroquois tongue. She bowed her head and mumbled her emotions, but at times she threw her hands in the air and shook her fists violently at the unseen Great Spirit.

Jake approached his uncle and whispered in his ear. “We need to do something with these bodies. We can’t go to the police. They won’t see this as an act of self-defense from a home invasion. They’ll see my connection with Nero and that the keg was dug up. We are in this as deep as Ashland was. They’ll put us all away for murder.”

Joe’s voice cracked with fear. “And if anyone on the reservation finds out, well, loose lips sink ships.”

“Right.”

“Do you think Rousseau will come back?”

“I’m not sure,” Jake whispered. “He retrieved what Nero wanted him to, but he knows we have firepower and we shoot back to kill. I think I wounded him but not sure. He’s outnumbered as far as I know. So, my bet is he won’t, but still I’m not going to chance it. We’ve got to get Lizzie out of here and into a safe house and we’ve got to get rid of those bodies.”

“I know. I know,” said Joe, his hands shaking. “I’m just trying to think where we can take them. Hell, I’ve never done this before. What are we going to do with them? Bury them, sink them, hide them, burn them?”

Lizzie’s pacing stopped. Both men looked over to the clan elder. On the rocking chair, Choo-Choo even perked up. Lizzie parted her fine white hair and exposed her red face. She scowled at the men with fiery eyes.

“Robert Jake Tununda,” she rasped and pointed. “You are now a guardian of the White Deer Society whether you like it or not! Nero will soon be in possession of the last clues to the cave entrance. We are now in the final race to find the almighty Crown of Serpents. You must go to Kendaia tonight and head him off. If he finds the crown, he will unleash the powers of darkness and slavery and we will suffer beneath his boot.”

“But the bodies—”

“Shush!” Lizzie scolded. “I took their lives. I own their souls. This is my house, my responsibility. Big Bear and I will handle the bodies. You are much more valuable to us by finding the crown and securing it so Nero cannot possess it.”

Jake looked at his uncle. He received a reassuring nod.

“As you wish,” Jake promised. “Let me grab my stuff and I’ll hit the road to Kendaia. And remember, I was
never
here.”

27

Thursday morning. Varick Fire Station.

S
TATE POLICE INVESTIGATOR Rae Hart thought she’d kill three birds with one stone before meeting her so-called anonymous tipster in Ovid. The first, fix the hunger pains in her stomach. The second, check on the status of the emergency coordinator injured in the gravesite arson. The third, find an outstanding material witness related to that arson. And the perfect place to try and nail all three birds was this morning’s fundraising pancake breakfast just north of the Army Depot on Route 96A at the Varick Fire Station.

She pulled into the busy parking lot and stepped from her vehicle. She wore a black trench coat over a dark blue turtleneck sweater, jeans, and black leather boots. In the meeting hall, where breakfast was being served, she was greeted warmly by several of the firefighters in the serving line. She thanked them for their inquiries on how she was feeling after being shot, and was treated to a plate of pancakes and home fries, plus a cup of coffee. As she ate and chit-chatted with some local residents curious about her ordeal, her stomach responded kindly.

First bird stoned.

Afterward, she wandered down the hall, coffee cup in hand, and found the handlebar-mustached fire chief Chet Bailey sitting in his office. She immediately voiced her concern and inquired about the county emergency coordinator’s condition.

“I just heard from the doc this morning,” answered the chief, rising up to greet her. He motioned for her to sit down while he slipped on his reading glasses. She placed her coffee on the desk while he read from a notepad near his phone.

“Ed is actually going to pull out of this just fine. Let me see here, Doc said he’s got a busted shoulder, broken ribs, severe burns on his arm, and a bad knot on his head, but nothing life-threatening.” He looked up at Rae.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that. I’m going up to Geneva today to pay him a visit.”

Bird number two stoned.

The chief asked how she was feeling. She gave him an explanation of the shooting, with credit to Major Tununda for helping her, and a comment that they were making good progress on finding the killer/cop shooter. He then asked if she had any suspects on the Indian grave arson.

“All kinds of good evidence, but no clear suspects yet and no motivation other than maybe an anti-Native American resentment.” Rae pursed her lips.

“Yeah, tensions are sky high about the sale of the Depot,” noted the Chief. “I hope people around here behave today. Word leaked out that it’s that casino guy Alex Nero who’s gonna be buying up the land.”

“Yep, heard the same,” said Rae. “It just chaffs my ass that he’ll literally be in our own backyard. We put all our patrols on alert. Sheriff’s department is helping us out too.” She pulled a note pad out of her trench coat pocket. Thumbing through her notes she found the name she was looking for.

“But listen, I want to ask you about one firefighter in particular who was on scene that morning—”

“Oh, lemme taking a wild guess — Tommy friggin’ Owens, right?”

The chief killed bird number three for her. “That would be the one,” she nodded.

“He treated our good Samaritan pretty goddamn crummy,” replied the chief, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. “I can see how you made the connection, but he better hope to high hell he’s got nothing to do with that arson or I’ll roast his ignorant, uneducated ass myself.”

“I stopped by his house twice and he hasn’t been home. Was wondering if you might know where I could find him.”

“Last I heard that boy lost his job when his daddy shut down their convenience store up in Seneca Falls. Now he’s delivering for Mark’s Pizzeria out of Ovid.”

“Well, I’ll just go ahead and get a pizza delivered to our Romulus station then,” Rae laughed. “See who shows up.”

“Better yet, I saw his daddy eating pancakes earlier, maybe he’s still out there. Can’t miss him. He’s bigger than me with gray hair and shitty teeth. I think he’s got a dark blue coat on if I’m not mistaken. Name is Tom Owens Senior.”