Keeper of the Black Stones (19 page)

Briegan took a deep breath, and released it. “What happened out there?” he asked evenly.

The dark-haired man shook his head. “Raymond took two bullets to the
stomach. He's dead. We didn't get into the house. No sign of the old man, or anything else.”

“And the boy and his … body guard?” Briegan demanded.

The man shrugged again. “We didn't wait to see where they went. They could be anywhere by now.”

13

W
e tore down the back roads for several miles, avoiding other cars, and made our way onto Interstate 89. We'd lifted Doc's keys and taken his car, since Reis' Volvo was now out of commission, and I was squeezed into the passenger seat next to Paul. Neither of us had wanted to ride in the back by ourselves. Reis was driving the car faster than Doc ever had, the engine whining in protest and effort.

As we drove, my mind began to assimilate the things that had just happened. And I began to wonder at the lack of surprise on Reis' face when people started shooting. I was no expert, but it seemed to me that a normal person would have been at least a little shocked in that situation. Reis, though, had reacted quickly and naturally, like he'd been expecting it. Or dealt with that sort of thing on a regular basis. He'd handled it like a pro.

“How did you know?” I asked finally, breaking the tense silence in the car.

“Know what?” Reis asked sharply.

“Those guys back there. How did you know they weren't Federal agents?” I stopped, thinking. “In fact, are you sure they
weren't
Federal agents?”

Reis nodded once. “Positive, for a few reasons. First, they would have called local support if they were actually FBI. That's standard protocol.”

“Reis, I don't speak government. English, please.”

“Real FBI would have had local cops with them. These guys just came charging in, unannounced. It's unprofessional.”

Paul grunted, impressed. “What else?”

“Quebec license plates,” Reis answered, warming to the conversation. “No way Feds are driving a car with Canadian plates.”

“You noticed an awful lot about guys firing guns and rocket launchers at you,” Paul answered. “Anything else?” I could see him getting interested, filing the info away for future use.

“That wasn't a rocket launcher. It was a grenade launcher. Big difference.” Reis paused, thinking. “The whole thing felt off. They didn't feel legit to me. When you've been in the business as long as I have, you learn to trust those gut feelings. And Fleming hired me for a reason.”

I sat back, thinking. “But why were they after us? What on earth do we have that they want?”

Reis grunted. “They might not have been after us at all.”

“Doc?” I asked.

“Or the stone. If what you say is true…” He shook his head as he tried to connect the dots. “Then there's no telling who's looking for it, or what they'd do to get it.”

After a moment of silence, Paul spoke again. “Is Reis Slayton your real name?”

Reis threw Paul a quick a glance. “Why do you ask?”

“Well you have all this crazy experience. You say you're in ‘the business.' And you have to admit that the name sounds … well, made up, really.”

I groaned. Here we were, our lives in danger, fighting against people who were evidently bent on changing the course of history, about to confront the man who could tell us what we needed to know, and Paul was wondering whether Reis used a code name.

“Paul, really?” I asked. “You think now's the time for this sort of nonsense?”

Reis ignored me. “Made up?”

“Like Race Banon in
Johnny Quest
, or Tony Stark or James Bond. You know, the super-cool guy name.”

Reis snorted, and a corner of his mouth turned up. I couldn't be sure, but I thought it was the start of a smile. It would have been one of the first I'd seen from him. “The next time I visit my parents, I'll get a copy of my birth certificate. Will that satisfy you?”

Paul held his hands up in mock surrender. “Not necessary, captain, I was just curious. Now if you told me your name was something like Jake Stone-fist or Rock Steelhead, I'd really have a hard time believing you.”

A bark of surprised laughter escaped Reis' mouth and Paul smiled, proud of himself. Before he could answer, though, we got off the interstate and turned onto Route 4, and then onto a private road just outside of Woodstock.

Paul whistled quietly. “The swankiest neighborhood in two states,” he remarked. “Not too shabby.”

We drove slowly down the private road, through a tunnel of old trees. I looked around anxiously, but could see only dense vegetation, marked periodically with signs warning that trespassers were unwelcome. No clues about what–or who–was to come. After a few moments of driving through the hushed forest, we drifted to a stop in front of a large wrought iron gate, bordered by 10-foot brick walls. Reis rolled his window down and leaned out the window toward a speaker in the wall.

“Reis Slayton to see Mr. Fleming,” he called casually.

Paul elbowed me in the ribs as the gate opened, and I nodded wordlessly. John Fleming was loaded. The entrance was bigger than anything I'd ever seen, and this was just the driveway. This man had more money and power than anyone I knew, and I was about to go into his house making demands. My stomach clenched with nerves, and I sucked in a deep gulp of air as we drove through the gate. The view was incredible; we could see the White Mountains of New Hampshire to our left and the Green Mountains of Vermont to our right. As we crested the hill, the oak and pine trees in front of us disappeared to reveal the estate. The scene before me did little
to settle my nerves.

“Holy smokes,” Paul murmured. “I knew there was old money in Woodstock, but that's really something. Who is this guy, anyhow?”

Paul was right. John Fleming's home made the White House look pedestrian. The house had been built in the colonial style–or age–with a portico in the front and a massive porch along the second floor, looking out onto the private drive. The driveway alone was bigger than our entire house. The whole thing was painted white, with lemon yellow shutters and trim, and flowerbeds and green lawns covered the grounds around the house. Two separate buildings stood behind the main home; I assumed that these were a fancy guesthouse and an equally impressive barn. My eyes moved on to the land behind the house, where white fences ran for miles, surrounding pastures full of horses. This was a full-blown horse ranch, complete with a mansion, circular drive, and creepy guesthouse. The main house probably had secret rooms, hidden stairwells, and a dungeon underneath. Maybe even a ghost or two.

I realized I'd been holding my breath, and let it out. Who the hell was this John Fleming, and how had Doc met him? Doc didn't belong in this world; the house was about one hundred times bigger than ours, and I couldn't imagine Doc ever being interested in horses or bushes shaped like animals. What did John Fleming have to do with my grandfather? And would he know anything about his disappearance this morning?

Reis must have been wondering the same thing, because he revved the engine and shot down the hill to the driveway. He pulled quickly into the circular drive, where a man I could only assume to be the butler met us.

“This way gentlemen. Mr. Fleming will take you in the study.” The man was larger than a butler had a right to be, and had a creepy foreign accent. I stepped carefully past him, and followed Reis up to the front door.

The foyer of the home was even more impressive than the exterior had been. Two large semi-circular staircases rose from the right and left to meet one another in a wide landing on the second floor. The paneling on the walls was done in dark, glossy mahogany, and a crystal chandelier hung golden and sparkling from a domed ceiling at least four stories above us. Old
paintings, maps, and tapestries covered the walls, which ended in a black and white marble floor. My eyes jumped from one spot to another, desperately trying to take everything in.

Drawing my eyes back down to ground level, I noticed Reis and the butler moving through the foyer to a set of French doors on the left. I shoved Paul, who was staring up at the ceiling, and scuttled after them.

The butler opened the doors grandly and moved aside, motioning for us to enter, but I paused. John Fleming had drawn Doc into this, asked for his help, and then let him walk into danger. To my mind, he was directly responsible for Doc's current situation. Part of me wanted to throttle the man for being so selfish and irresponsible.

My more grown-up half realized that discretion might be the better part of valor. After all, John Fleming was also the man who knew where Doc had gone, and why. He was the only one who could tell me what I needed to know. The question was whether he would.

I took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.

I had always liked our little den, but this library put it to shame. The room was straight off the pages of an architectural magazine, and made me even more curious about the man who lived here. These walls had mahogany panels as well, with fancy crown molding at the top, and held hundreds of pictures of John Fleming. Some pictures featured him by himself, while others showed him shaking hands with people I didn't recognize, but assumed to be famous, powerful, or important. I snorted, amused. What kind of man kept that many pictures of himself? Then I saw the built-in bookshelves. Miles of them, lining two sides of the long room, and full of at least ten thousand books. It was a bookworm's dream. The bookshelves ended in an expansive fireplace, which took up an entire corner on its own, and looked like it could house a small family. A large stuffed moose head sat over the fireplace, presiding over the large, somewhat pretentious “study.” To our right, a desk the size of a small automobile centered itself against the
back of the room, right next to a small bar.

Compared to the house and room, John Fleming was small and relatively unimpressive. He turned from the window behind the desk and strode forward to greet us. As I watched him walk toward us, the fear and anxiety I'd felt for the last hour, the worry over Doc, and the apprehension about approaching this rich, powerful man shifted and coalesced into a large lump of ice, sitting right below my heart. I had promised myself that I could be reasonable and handle this situation rationally, in the name of getting the information I needed. I had told myself that I'd be confident and persuasive, eloquent even, in explaining to him why I needed answers to my questions. By the time John Fleming had crossed the carpet to stand in front of me, I wasn't sure I could do any of that. I was coldly angry.

“Jason, it's nice to see you again. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your friends,” he said, his eyes hooded.

I almost laughed. This wasn't the same friendly, doddering old man I'd met the other night. This man was suspicious of us. And he was lying. A small part of my fear fell away at his words, and I shook my head.

“Mr. Fleming, this is my friend Paul Merrell. I believe you already know Reis Slayton. He is, after all, your employee,” I answered softly.

Paul squirmed and coughed at my unpleasant reply, and Reis grunted in agreement. John Fleming's expression didn't change, though I could see his eyes narrow in displeasure.

“Please have a seat,” he answered quietly. He motioned to a large leather sofa, and sat opposite the sofa in a plush leather chair. Once he was comfortably situated, he turned a false smile on me again.

“What can I help you with, son?”

I pulled air in through my teeth and gathered myself. I needed this to go quickly, and as smoothly as possible, so I started with the polite version. “Mr. Fleming, my grandfather is missing. I know that you know where he is, and how I can get to him. I came here to get answers. And I don't have a lot of time.” I glanced at my watch meaningfully.

Fleming sat back in his seat but said nothing, so I charged on.