Crown of Serpents (47 page)

On hands and knees, Stanton searched the floor in front of her, groping to find the crown. But it was nowhere to be seen. “It’s gone! The crown is gone,” she cried. “It was just here!”

Jake scurried over and grabbed his weapon and the flashlight. Rae snatched the lit helmet then they both drew back close to Stanton and searched some more.

“The crown is gone,” Stanton whispered.

“I thought you had it?” asked Jake. He looked at his hands and all of the snake bite wounds vanished.

“I dropped it in the dark,” Stanton replied. “I can’t find it. Did Nero take it?”

“Not a chance,” replied Jake.

They walked over to the pit, Jake pointing his rifle in the hole. They stared down into emptiness. The pit was devoid of all flames, liquid, or any source of light.

“Nero’s dead,” said Rae. “He got sucked down that hole. There was no explosion to toss him out or he would be in this room.”

“Flushed,” Jake smirked.

“I’m getting the hell out of this place,” said Rae.

“10-4,” said Jake, still staring in the pit. “But first I need to check something out. I think I know where the crown might be.
We
need to know. To make sure it’s safe. Give me some light when I climb in.”

“Huh?” muttered Stanton.

“Oh no,” said Rae. “You’re not going down into another well.”

“Oh yes I am.”

Jake flung his legs over the edge and entered the pit. Hands pressed against the pit walls he scampered down the rock steps jutting from its sides. Below him was a bottomless black hole he refused to look into. Slipping slightly, he steadied himself on a firm ledge and peered under a rock lip to an open area in the wall. A silvery blue light suddenly illuminated his face. He smiled.

“The crown is down here! Everything’s good.” Jake squinted in the light and reached forward out of Rae and Stanton’s view. He grabbed an item, inspected it with a grin, and hung it around his neck. The silver guardian’s broach had found its new
rightful
owner. He climbed back up.

Pulling himself out, Jake told his two counterparts that the crown was indeed intact and safe down there under the rock lip. “It’s in its own sanctum sanctorum.” His backside was then suddenly cast in flickering blue and silver light emitting from the pit. He looked back. “I don’t know how it got back down there. Maybe had some help here from our three friends.” He pointed to the corpses. “But anyway, we are leaving it alone. Our business is done here. This whole damn escapade is over.”

“We have no choice,” said Rae. “Look behind you.”

The water had risen to the top of the pit again, bubbling and flaming. Wisps of white mist spilled from its surface.

“We are out of here,” Jake ordered. “Let’s find our gear before this place fills up with fog again. We’ve got a long, dangerous hike back and I’ve got an injured uncle to attend to. We’ll deal with protecting the location of this place once we get back topside and sort everything out.”

Toilet room.

Almost an hour later Jake squeezed through the hole in the toilet room wall and laid his rifle on the floor. The room was quiet. His uncle was no where in sight. Jake thought maybe Joe had attempted to make his way back up to the surface to seek help.

Jake helped the two women into the room and they collapsed in exhaustion without saying a word. As Rae and Stanton shared a bottle of water, Jake heard an odd sound up the flight of stairs, beyond the door. It sounded as if a can had been dropped. He stood up and directed his M4 rifle up the corridor.

“Big Bear?” he shouted. “That you up there?”

Silence.

Jake bounded up the steps two at a time and burst through the door. There, under a canopy of flashlight, sitting on a shiny Indian motorcycle, with a candy bar sticking out of his mouth, was Uncle Joe Big Bear. A gas can rolled at his feet. Jake lowered his rifle and sighed with joy. He smiled. Rae and Stanton appeared at Jake’s side.

Joe smiled at the trio, just shaking his head with relief. He then stood up and pressed down on the kick-start bar with his good ankle. The motorcycle sputtered to life with a puff of gray smoke. Joe torqued back on the handlebar grip and revved the engine to full capacity. It roared like a tiger. His stomach shook with laughter. He revved some more.

38

The next day. Yale Manor Bed and Breakfast.

J
AKE STOOD AT the burnt out Indian grave at Cranberry Marsh. Nothing remained. Not one remnant of the past survived the blackened carnage all around him. Charred trees and soot-covered branches lay at twisted angles in a pile. A burned firefighter’s glove lay partially buried under a black rotted log. How can this be so real, Jake asked himself, his memory in a foggy haze. He hadn’t even revisited this site since hearing of the arsonist attack. Then he heard something behind him. Laughing. Muffled laughing from underground. His eyes wandered to the large iron slab covering the limestone well where he had attempted to rescue the ill-fated Derrick Blaylock. The heavy slab moved. It lifted, then slid to the side. Jake saw a quick glimpse of bony hands. The hands then grasped the edge of the hole. What came next sent a jolt of fear through Jake’s body. Silver snakes, alive with rage, emerged from the hole. They hissed and sought him out. Then buck’s antlers. No, it cannot be happening again, Jake pleaded as a tormented, laughing face appeared at the rim. It cannot be. Alex Nero. Risen from the dead, silver snakes molded into his scraggly, long gray hair. Back from the abyss. The Crown was his once again. His glowing silver eyes moved wildly about. And then all went black.

Jake stood motionless in the shower stall, both hands pressed against the tiled wall to support his naked, bruised body. His throbbing head was bent low as he blinked his eyes and tried to wipe the dreamy horror from his mind. As hot water soothed his tight muscles, he moaned with a mixture of pleasure, pain, and sheer relief. Opening his eyes wide, he watched the water splash at his feet like heavy rain. He wondered at the meaning of the nightmarish dream that had roused him out of bed so early.

Nero laughing under the mask — his hair turning into snakes, it was all so vivid in the dream. Was it a dream? Jake shook his head. Maybe the ruthless bastard had survived, retrieved the mask, and somehow found an escape route up through hundreds of feet of limestone and ended up in the Cranberry Marsh pit. No, clearly this couldn’t be, Jake tried to tell himself. That’s impossible. But maybe it was a message or a sign or some sort of telepathic threat. Clutching the silver broach dangling from his neck, he willed the negative thoughts from his mind. Then all was well. He stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself off.

An inviting female voice murmured softly. “Hey soldier. Now that’s the kind of uniform I like.”

Startled, Jake looked up. There stood Rae, admiring his wet body with mischievous eyes. She was dressed only in a white robe. She leaned against the bathroom door and looked him up and down, smiling admirably.

Jake grinned. He dropped his towel and walked up to her. He untied her robe. “It seems I didn’t tamper with your evidence enough last night?”

Rae opened her robe and pressed her warm naked body against his. She pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Honey, you can mess up my crime scene any time you want.”

On the bedroom nightstand next to a bottle of wine, Rae’s cell phone blarred. She pulled herself away and uttered an obscenity at the bad timing. “I have to take it. Don’t you move, mister. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake grinned.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she answered. “This is Hart. Uh huh.” She listened to the caller and immediately smiled. She looked at Jake standing in the bathroom. He caught her glance and raised his eyebrows.

She listened a minute more then praised the caller. “Great. Nice work. Listen, I’m still resting. I’ll be in later. Okay, goodbye.”

“What are you so happy about?” asked Jake, entering the bedroom, the towel back around his waist.

“Bob Wyzinski, the arsonist. He just confessed everything. Looks like he acted alone. His motive was profit driven. Three months ago he lost his side business of a car-wash company up in Seneca Falls when an Indian-owned firm started competing against him. With credit cards maxed out and his marriage in a shambles he was already on shaky ground. After hearing an Indian was going to buy the Depot, then after the grave was found and you, of all people crawling out of that hole, he said he basically lost it and decided to act. Took it out on the Indians with fire. He did a little research into Indian symbology — thus the dog strangling — to send a message that it was war. But he said he never intended to hurt anyone. Really?” She looked up at Jake. “That good-for-nothing bastard is going to have a long time to think about that.”

Her phone rang again. Rae rolled her eyes and answered angrily. This time her mouth fell open as she listened to the caller. “Okay, give me twenty minutes. Where is it again? At the end of Parker Road, got it.” She closed her cell phone and bowed her head.

“What’s going on now?” asked Jake.

Rae looked at Jake expressionless. “I was just told a badly beaten body, bearing a striking resemblance to Alex Nero, was just reeled in by some fishermen on the lake. Sheriff said the top of his head was scalped.”

Jake’s lips parted.

“Well, you want to check it out with me? Make sure it’s really him?”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t need to see him again. Besides, I’ve to get back down to Pennsylvania.”

“Well, I’ll ID the son of a bitch and close this case once and for all.”

“I’ve got to ask,” said Jake. “What lake did they find him in?”

“Cayuga Lake. Up near Canoga Landing,” answered Rae, somewhat confused. Then her eyes grew wide, knowing why he asked. “That underground river really connects the two lakes then.”

Jake nodded. “I guess so. We saw it for ourselves. Now we know it empties into Cayuga Lake somewhere way underground.” He then grew incredibly silent.

Rae stood up. “You okay?”

Jake looked into her eyes. “Listen, that crown needs to remain a legend though, you know? Some things need to be kept secret, still as a myth.” He touched the silver broach hanging from his necklace.

Rae nodded. “And a legend it will remain, Jake.” She moved close to him and placed her arms around his neck. “I owe you my life. You can count on me keeping a secret.” They embraced.

EPILOGUE

Late May. New York City.

A
FTER A THOROUGH examination of the Boyd and McTavish keg contents by MHI, a team of expert coin collectors was called in to assess the monetary value of the British coinage. It was determined that because of the rarity and excellent condition of the gold Guineas, along with the incredible story attached to them, that each coin could fetch up to ten thousand dollars. The news made instant headlines across the nation. But it was decided by Dr. Jacobson that the coins and other war souvenirs were not to be sold for profit. Instead, MHI partnered with the Freemasons and formed a traveling exhibition to tell the unique story to the general public. And of course, on this successful opening night ceremony, Jake had been assigned the lead presenter for the exhibition. He was an instant hit in front of the famed American Numismatic Society in New York City.

Afterward, as the crowds thinned, Jake snuck away to wrap up some unfinished business. He retrieved an item held by staff security, left the building, and jumped on his Indian motorcycle for his two destinations in the city.

His first stop was a visit to a close friend in law enforcement who was also an expert scuba diver. Jake laid the groundwork for an MHI-funded dive off the Painted Rocks in Seneca Lake. Their goal: Sullivan’s cannon of gold.

Next, he paid a visit to the state headquarters of the fraternity he had belonged to since his first tour in Iraq. On the top floor of the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons of the State of New York, Jake exited the elevator and proceeded to the end of the posh hall.

“Brother Tiler?” Jake announced, walking up to a distinguished man in his seventies.

The man stood up from his chair, guarding a closed door. The gentleman held an elaborate sword, hilt up, blade between his legs. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, silver vest and tie, and his hands covered with white linen gloves. He wore a bright white apron around his waist. The apron was trimmed and tasseled in blue and gold. Jake noticed the middle flap of the apron was pointed down, denoting the man as a Master Mason.

“I am Brother Major Robert Jake Tununda, a Master Mason from the Land, Sea, and Air Lodge Number One of Iraq. I seek admittance to the Grand Lodge on a matter of returning the remains of Brother Mason Lieutenant Thomas Boyd of the Continental Army.”

“Brother Tununda, it is an honor to make your acquaintance,” replied the Tiler, duly impressed with Jake’s Class A Army dress uniform and his medals and ribbons. Among them, the Tiler noticed was a small pin with a square and compasses — the Mason’s symbol.

Jake also wore an apron around his waist, but his was trimmed and tasseled in olive green, black, and brown, the colors of the military lodge he had been raised a Freemason in several years back while on duty in Iraq.

“We’ve been expecting you.” The Tiler shook hands with Jake. In a very subtle motion both men repositioned their grip. They then performed several body motions only fellow Masons would know. “And the password?” asked the Tiler.

Jake leaned in close to the Tiler, mouth to ear, and whispered the secret password to gain admittance to the Lodge. The Tiler nodded and uttered the same word back to Jake. The examination was over.

Jake tucked under his arm a small wooden box he was carrying.

“I need to inspect the contents of that box before I ask for your admittance into the Lodge.”

“Certainly Brother Tiler,” replied Jake. He placed the box on the chair and lifted the cover. “Boyd’s ah... scalp is there in the protective bag.” He did not look in. “His remains are being returned to the Masons on behalf of the director of the Haudenosaunee Collection, granted with authority from the Grand Council of Chiefs. His scalp is to be added to his grave at Mt. Hope Cemetery up in Rochester.”