Crown of Serpents (4 page)

Yet he frowned. Because there was one elusive item that would help him gain the unstoppable power to defeat his foes and he still had no solid clues as to where it resided.

The item was called the Crown of Serpents. It was once owned by the most powerful ruler of his tribe, Nero’s ancient Onondaga forefather named Atotarho. This shaman had perfected the crown’s abilities to suppress his enemies and heal his friends many centuries ago. Supposedly, the relic held legendary powers, not only medicinal, but also more importantly, of complete mind control. And then it disappeared. It had actually been stolen from Atotarho then hidden away and never seen again.

Generations of Nero’s clan members had sought to find the crown ever since, but they were poor, scattered, and did not have the means to conduct serious searches or excavations. The ignorant uneducated tribal members even questioned the legend to begin with. But ten years ago, Nero’s late mother had made a breakthrough discovery.

During one of her magical black arts sessions, the old medicine woman unveiled a prophecy that centered on Alex Nero himself finding and using the artifact. She had said a sign would reveal itself to him, that he was the rightful bloodline recipient, that the spirits beyond the sunset had predicted it, but that he should respect and use the crown with great care, never to abuse it. The most important clue his mother had gleaned from the paranormal world of spirits she communicated with, was the symbol of the guardian cult that supposedly had kept the crown hidden for so long. The symbol she had envisioned was that of a silhouetted white buck, and inside of the buck’s belly was a snake.

Until her death two years ago, she had headed up his Haudenosaunee Collection, and with him had spent countless hours pursuing leads to find remnants of the lost cult and its symbol. They had focused their efforts in the area between the two largest Finger Lakes of Seneca and Cayuga — because of the link with the famous white deer herd there and the location of the lost Seneca village of Kendaia, once a spiritual Mecca of the Iroquois. But they had come up empty. The main obstacles to their search were the U.S. properties of Sampson State Park and the abandoned 10,000-acre Seneca Army Depot.

Up until now.

The Depot had been put up for sale by Seneca County, a real estate transaction Nero jumped all over. Money was not an issue. Local politics were. And keeping the sale anonymous until the last moment was paramount to his transaction. Unfortunately, word had leaked out that an Indian was interested in the sale. Now the local waters were rippling with fear, anger, and resentment.

Everything, up until now, was working out for him. He could see the path to the top. His goal was near. He wasn’t upset with the media leak. He could deal with that with extortion and bribery. His problem was if he didn’t reach his pinnacle within six months or less, he’d be six feet under.

As of last week and several professional second opinions later, the diagnosis of full-blown, stage four throat cancer had been confirmed. The doctors had given him less than six months to live if he did not seek treatment immediately.

He shook his head in utter disbelief, taking yet another puff on his cigar, still defiant of the possibility that he might travel beyond the sunset before he could culminate his final ambitious acts. He ground his teeth together with a screech.

Six months.

Nero looked down and angrily tapped the ashes from his long cigar. It would be his greatest challenge — to beat the white man’s disease. He watched the ashes float away, disintegrating above the throngs of his white scum customers filing in and out of the main entrance to his casino. Near the valet-service he also noticed his black Hummer waiting for him.

Two of his hand picked bodyguards stood by the vehicle pacing rather impatiently. After all, a carved-up body stuffed in a barrel in the back of the SUV surely weighed heavily on their minds. It was Nero’s top pit boss, caught in an elaborate plan to bilk him out of millions of dollars. The missing Indian was waiting to be sunk in the reservoir under Nero’s personal watch. After that, he would catch his flight to Buffalo later in the day.

On tap in Buffalo was his first meeting with doctors at the Roswell Park Cancer Institute to discuss surgical options and his regimen of treatments. It was a trip Nero had not wanted to make. He had never believed in western methods of healing, but now his choices were limited. If only his mother were still alive she could have conjured up one of her ancient remedies and fixed everything, or so he had hoped.

There was one glimmer of good news though. Late yesterday, his new collections director had surprised him with a short-notice acquisitions opportunity at Old Fort Niagara. She told him there were several recently discovered items from an American Revolutionary War officer and he would be given a full viewing with a chance to purchase them. One of the items that piqued his interest was the officer’s scalp. It was taken by Seneca Indians during the American campaign of 1779 to destroy the Iroquois homelands. It would make a fine trophy for the Confederacy — a priceless highlight for his private Scalp Room deep within his mountain museum.

Nero took another pull on his cigar thinking it would be a good diversion after his Roswell meeting. And probably would be the last scalp he’d ever add to his collection.

3

Cranberry Marsh. Thirty minutes later.

U
NDER LEAFLESS TREES backlit by a slate gray sky, Jake stood shivering in his filth-covered Army dress shirt and slacks. He had just crawled out from the clammy hole after securing the victim’s body for the local fire department. He hadn’t wanted to put any of the volunteer firefighters at risk since there was only room for one person in the tight shaft anyway. It was the least he could do to spare them the same disgust he had waded into. The adrenaline rush of a possible rescue had long since worn off. All he wanted now was a hot shower and dry clothes. He heaved a sigh of relief as the final phase of the body recovery came to a close.

The rescuers had lowered a wire Stokes body basket, a portable radio, a digital camera, and an evidence collection bag to him shortly after they arrived on the scene and determined who he was and how he had climbed down there. Under cramped quarters, Jake had lifted the body up and strapped it into the basket, the blood and mud soiling his uniform. He was then directed to take pictures and recover as much evidence as possible by the woman who had first shouted down to him.

She had adamantly made it known she was a New York State Police investigator and wanted him to follow her direct orders since he was messing up her scene and compromising evidence. He had gathered the broken cell phone pieces and the silver broach, placed them in the bag and then took multiple photos of the scene and victim. When finished he took the victim’s baseball cap and placed it back on his head. He wondered what the loud-mouthed investigator would think of that once the body returned topside.

Upon emerging from the hole, Jake returned the evidence bag, camera, and radio to the fire captain he had been in contact with during the operation. Several more firefighters greeted him with a pat on the back for his efforts. The captain and a South Seneca Ambulance paramedic checked Jake for injuries and then, shaking his hand, thanked him for a job well done. Jake assured the medic he was fine and was left with a gray wool blanket which he wrapped around his shoulders.

The captain asked Jake to stand back before giving the order for the recovery team to haul the body up. The captain then walked the evidence bag over to a woman in a dark blue baseball cap squatting down at a mound of earth. Three law enforcement personnel flanked her. Long auburn hair swayed through the back clasp of her hat. Jake read the words State Police on the back of her blue field jacket. She spun around, caught his gaze, slowly looked him up and down, and frowned. Jake turned back to the recovery.

Four firefighters in yellow bunker gear and helmets pulled for several minutes on a utility rope to extract the victim. The body, with a skewed racing cap on his bashed-in head, finally made it out. The rope team set down their line as the basket surfaced next to the hole. The captain announced on his radio that the body had been recovered. A static-filled voice of a woman on the radio affirmed his message.

One of the volunteers on the team, an overweight, sweat-soaked young man with a scruffy goatee, looked toward Jake, eyeing him with genuine disgust. Jake stared back until the volunteer glanced away, fumbling with his equipment. A large, red circular sticker decorated the side of the volunteer’s helmet. Don’t Sell Our Lands it blared, a red slash through an Indian head profile.

In a barely audible sarcastic tone, Jake heard the young man say to his fellow firefighter, “Another noble savage to the rescue. Low life red faces are popping up everywhere these days.” He then chuckled. The other firefighter walked away telling the kid to grow up.

Many a quick judgment had been made about Jake before. He had heard the whispers of lower ranked soldiers denounce his warrior ancestry or his intimidating zeal to lead from the front. He had heard the nicknames but had not been bothered. The nicknames actually were a form of flattery. But when it came down to an outright racist provocation he confronted each individual head-on and never backed down. This pudgy volunteer was certainly no exception.

With a pulsating jaw, Jake walked up on the lone volunteer and stepped into the kid’s personal space. “You all pissed off that some red face got here first and stole your glory, eh hero?”

“What the f—!” The volunteer jumped back in surprise. He then angrily folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t say a thing, man. You must be hearing shit. Besides what your kind doing out here anyway?”

Jake’s blood went hot. “My kind?” he questioned loudly. He stood nose to nose with the young man. Several heads turned their way. Jake pointed over to the body basket. “My kind was trying to saving that guy’s damn life.”

“We don’t need no Indians out here, trying to take things from us.”

“Take things from you?” spat Jake. He advanced a step forward, forcing the volunteer back. “You got a screw loose in that so-called brain of yours?”

The volunteer recoiled. “I mean threatening to steal our rightful county property over at the Depot. What did your tribe do, call you in since you’re with the Army or something? Them lands belong to taxpaying people of this county. Not some so-called sovereign Indian nation that’s going to put up another casino, another gas station, and another cigarette store and not pay taxes on any of it!”

Jake tossed his head back and mockingly laughed. Now he got it — the pending sale of the abandoned Seneca Army Depot lands, a sprawling weapons storage facility not a mile to the west. He should have known this was coming out of left field. The volunteer’s anti-Indian helmet sticker said it all.

“Listen,” replied Jake, with a wry grin and tepid tone. “You seriously must be on meth or something to make a leap like that. I just happened to be driving through, heard the radio call, and acted. So next time, before you soil my race and my uniform, you better think twice about wagging that little tongue of yours.”

The volunteer’s upper lip curled. His jaw muscles twitched. He was just about to spit something back when the captain walked up.

“Get your ass back to the truck now!” barked the fire officer. He wore a stone cold expression on his face. The volunteer immediately huffed off into the swamp without saying a word.

The captain turned to Jake, hiding his eyes under the rim of his red helmet. In a low voice of utter embarrassment, he said, “I apologize about firefighter Owens, sir. He does not represent the views of our department.”

Jake shook his head. “Captain, all I have to say is good timing because his jaw was as good as broken with one more piece of bullshit coming out of his mouth.”

The captain looked up. “Sir, I wish you would have. I wouldn’t have stopped you. None of the cops would have either. Tommy Owens is our resident no-brains jackass. Every department has one. Problem is we need all the vollies we can get because of manpower shortages. And sometimes they aren’t the brightest crayon in the box.”

“Listen, I hear you,” replied Jake. He cooled his tone with a light chuckle. “You should see some of the loose nuts we recruit in the Army. Believe me, a high school diploma is a terrible thing to waste.” He smiled and shook hands with the captain indicating no harm was done.

“Thanks Major. I appreciate your understanding. Listen, the state police investigator said to not to leave the scene until she gets your statement.”

“Figured that.”

The captain walked off, wishing Jake good luck with everything. But inside Jake still simmered at the volunteer’s ignorance. He knew the broken treaty land claims, in reference to property the Iroquois lost after the American Revolution, had been a hot button issue in New York State for decades, but he had never come face to face with the emotions it had brewed. Tempers on both sides of the fight had always been high, especially on the issues of sovereignty, tax collection, and gambling. At one boiling point years ago, riots even had to be suppressed by the State Police on the Onondaga Nation south of Syracuse. And eventually, lives were lost during a Mohawk tribal stand off up in the Adirondacks. Finally, cooler heads had prevailed, and in 2006 all land claim lawsuits were put to rest with a Supreme Court ruling against the Indians. But now the pending sale of the interior of the abandoned Seneca Army Depot raised the slumbering political beast back to the surface once again. It was a story Jake had been following off and on simply because of the military history attached to the famous Army facility.

Constructed in the 1940s between the two largest Finger Lakes, the sprawling 10,000-acre base had served the important role as a storage installation for every piece of weaponry and ammunition in the U.S. Army’s arsenal since World War II. The Depot, as locals named it, later became the transshipment point for nuclear bombs and missiles servicing the entire eastern theater of military operations. The Department of Defense, however, never officially confirmed nor denied the existence of nuclear weapons at the installation. Unofficially, investigators had shown beyond a reasonable doubt that weapons were there.