by Steve Berry
“You broke my damn leg,” the man spit out.
Lea understood and inched her way toward a large piece of one of the demolished containers.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked, trying to provide more distraction.
“Shut up.”
Lea froze, her eyes focused on something behind Cassiopeia. Her assailant saw it, too, readjusting his aim.
A gun exploded.
And not the pistol.
Much louder.
The chest of the man across the chamber erupted as lead slapped into flesh. A death rattle seeped from the man’s mouth, along with rivers of blood. Then the body doubled over, jerking in unnatural, ugly movements.
Lea gasped in shock.
Cassiopeia turned, cold shivers prickling her skin.
Terry Morse stood with a shotgun in hand.
“There’s no time for me to be angry right now,” Morse said. “We have to go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Grant had weighed the options and decided making a move now was the smart play. Sure, they may have found Martin Thomas’ body, but if he was fast he might be able to find the other part of what he was after before anyone knew he’d even looked. There’d been no news reports or anything in the media about a death at the Smithsonian. And if they could link him to Diane and Diane to Thomas, then why had he not heard from her or the police? Instead, there was only silence. Hopefully the Justice Department lady was dead, and Richard Stamm should not be a problem. True, those records the lady had been cradling would have been nice to have, but there’d been no way to stop and get them.
He’d casually entered the natural history museum with the day’s first wave of visitors, which included schoolchildren on a field trip and a smattering of early-bird tourists. As a kid he’d spent a lot of time inside the museums lining the Mall, especially American and natural history. There really was no slow time. Millions flooded through the doors each year, thanks in large part to everything being free. He’d listened to his father babble about that perk too many times to count. Those were stories he would not miss. But the other ones—where his old man had used a quick, vivid turn of a phrase, one that breathed life into something from the past that could have easily been dull and boring—those he’d liked.
He stood inside the famous marble rotunda with its trademarked African elephant, heavy with tusks, dominating the center. Ocean Hall opened straight ahead, the Mammals Room off to his left. To the right loomed Fossil Hall, which was closed for renovations.
His destination.
He did not want to draw any undue attention to his incursion. There could be workers on the other side of the closed doors. If so, he’d just flash Thomas’ ID badge, one finger over the librarian’s picture, and hope no one asked too many questions. He glanced around and noticed no museum attendants in sight, and only one security person. There were cameras, so he told himself to keep his head down and blend into the crowd. Children raced about, as new arrivals washed past him to mingle with the previous tide of visitors. He wove a path through the bobbing heads to a security reader adjacent to Fossil Hall and swiped the card. The electronic lock clicked open and he quickly stepped through, the doors shutting behind him.
Silence returned.
Thankfully, the space beyond was empty, the hall in a state of demolition. Ceiling spotlights, here and there, provided partial illumination. All the carpet was gone from the concrete floor. Placards and writing still adorned the walls where exhibits had once hung, but no artifacts remained. Construction materials lay stacked everywhere. Cement blocks, lumber, scaffolding, debris. A couple of the larger exhibits still stood, yet to be removed.
One in particular drew his gaze.
The Permian coral reef exhibit, illustrating the diversity of sea life in the Permian Sea, from 250 million years ago, when all of the continents were assembled together in one giant landmass and western Texas and New Mexico lay underwater. The display had been there since he was a kid. Two months ago Martin Thomas had told him that it was on the list to be replaced during the renovations. He hadn’t taken a look then, thinking he had plenty of opportunity.
But things had changed.
* * *
Cotton raced out the doors into a warm May morning and headed for the American history museum. Rick Stamm followed. They ran to Constitution Avenue, then down the sidewalk, crossing 12th Street and continuing on to the entrance for the natural history museum. He’d decided not to involve any of the Smithsonian security people, preferring to handle this situation himself so no one else would be placed in harm’s way. He had a feeling that this intruder was the man who’d killed Martin Thomas and shot Stephanie.
No word had come from the hospital, which could be good or bad. He’d shaken death’s hand a few times himself and viewed the Reaper as less an enemy and more an equal. But he’d never imagined that Stephanie would garner an introduction so soon. He also wondered about Cassiopeia and how she was doing in Arkansas.
He’d have to check in with her shortly.
But not before determining just who was using Martin Thomas’ ID.
* * *
Grant stopped and made absolutely sure no one else was in the hall. The silence assured him he was alone, but that might not be the case for long. So he hurried to his left and found the reef exhibit, which loomed as large as he remembered, maybe ten feet long, that much high, and half that deep. Glass had once enclosed it on all sides, but the front and side panels were gone, exposing the colorfully crafted corals, sponges, sea fans, plants, and shells. Everything appeared exactly as it would have been hundreds of millions of years ago.
A few days ago, after another violent encounter, his father had told him the secret the exhibit held. In the 1960s his father had found what was known as the Trail Stone within the Smithsonian’s collections. There it had been cataloged and stored away, just one more of the millions of curiosities the institution harbored. In 1974 it became necessary to hide the stone away, so his father chose the newly created reef exhibit, a safe bet since its funding had come from a special gift by a wealthy family with the condition that the exhibit remain standing for at least thirty years.
It lasted over forty.
But its time had expired.
* * *
Cotton and Stamm swept into the natural history museum, bypassing the metal detectors and entering through the staff line.
“He’s in Fossil Hall,” one of the security people waiting for them said. “It’s closed off, under a total renovation. Everything’s been removed.”
“I’m assuming there are no cameras in there,” Cotton asked.
Stamm shook his head. “Not a one.”
“Okay, I’ll handle this. Just point the way.”
* * *
Grant studied the Permian reef exhibit, marveling at the detail and the fact that, forty years ago, his father had used the opportunity of its construction to hide the Trail Stone.
But where?
He decided subtlety would accomplish nothing, and the thing was about to be destroyed anyway. To his right, metal supports for the scaffolding stood propped against the wall. He grabbed one of the iron struts and used it to gash into the exhibit, scraping away the fake coral, seabed, and an assortment of plants and shells. He had to be careful not to gouge too deep, as it could damage the Trail Stone’s face, and he had no idea how or where it had been incorporated. Everything was fashioned from polyurethane, epoxy, and foam, and the surfaces gave way easily. Beneath the artistic exterior was a substructure of wood and stone. He saw that some actual rock had been positioned so its leading edges were exposed, becoming part of the towering faux reef wall.
And then he saw it.
Lying on its side, about two feet long and three inches thick, tucked into a wooden niche. Plywood sheathed the exhibit’s rear, encasing the Trail Stone inside a safe cocoon.
He set the strut aside and slid it free.
Carefully, he laid the stone on the concrete floor.
>
It looked just as Diane had described. Davis Layne had seen the stone back in the 1970s, before the feud between the fathers gestated out of control. A carved dagger on the left, squiggly lines etched into the face, an R in the upper right. A concave, heart-shaped indentation, about two inches deep, dominated the center, with 1847, 10, and two other symbols inscribed into its bottom. That niche was where another piece of the puzzle fit.
The Heart Stone.
There was no need to carry it out, which was good since leaving with something that large could prove difficult. Instead, he found his phone and snapped several photos from varying distances for different sizes and perspective.
Modern technology would do the rest.
* * *
Cotton slipped quietly into Fossil Hall.
Stamm had told him that the place was a wreck, everything gone, the walls stripped down to the studs. It was a huge space with several rooms and offshoots, no telling where the man he sought might be. But they knew he was still inside as none of the doors had electronically recorded an exit.
He found his target, facing away, crouched over something lying on the floor, snapping pictures with his phone.
He aimed his Beretta.
“Nice and slow. Stand up and turn around.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Danny entered Stephanie’s hospital room. The doctors had not wanted her to have any visitors, but being the ex-president of the United States still carried some clout. He also liked the fact that the door was guarded by an armed Magellan Billet agent.
She lay with wires connecting her to a variety of machines monitoring vital signs. Surgery had taken three hours and all the damage had supposedly been repaired. Tubes periscoped into her nostrils and she was breathing with the help of a ventilator, the rhythmic pulse of its ins and outs hypnotic. More tubes sent medicine and blood, and the fact that she needed so much technology did not seem good.
He stood beside the bed.
He’d loved two women in his life. He and Pauline had been together a long time, ever since high school. Their marriage had been inevitable and relatively happy until Mary died. Nothing was ever the same after that, though they each tried to pretend otherwise. Why they stayed married was easy. Both of them were ambitious. He admitted to the sham, Pauline liked to deny it. But he knew better. She’d enjoyed being the First Lady of both Tennessee and the United States. True, neither honor brought her happiness, but each may have provided a small respite from the enormous pain he never could cleanse from her.
Now he loved another woman.
Who lay before him with two bullet wounds.
He’d never told her exactly how he felt. As president and her boss, that had seemed inappropriate. Since his leaving office they hadn’t spent a whole lot of time alone.
He reached down and grasped her hand.
Her breaths were so shallow that it was nearly impossible to detect the rise and fall of her chest. The doctor had told him that she should make it, but there was a serious risk of infection since the injuries had been so extensive. They were pumping her full of antibiotics and decided a short-term, medically induced coma would aid the process, which also explained the ventilator. But a coma was not without risk, either, since the brain would have to be overloaded with dangerous barbiturates. Nothing about any of this was good, except for the fact that she was still alive.
He wondered what her reaction would be when she learned that he was about to become a U.S. senator. She probably would not be surprised, since she knew him better than he knew himself.
He gently squeezed her fingers, trying to quell a consuming anger, one that kept demanding revenge. Nearly his entire adult life had been spent keeping his emotions in check. Only alone with Pauline had he ever let his guard down. But even with her, there hadn’t been full openness. Both of them had held back. The last fifteen years of their relationship had been totally platonic, and he’d grown accustomed to the lack of physical intimacy. Politics and power had become his aphrodisiacs, but both of those vanished on January 20. Perhaps that further explained why he’d been so depressed the past few months. Only the prospects of a new life, with a new love, had kept him optimistic.
Yet here he was, about to be sworn into public office once again.
It had taken the death of an old friend and the duplicity of his widow to make that happen.
Timing wasn’t everything, it was absolutely everything.
And his had been impeccable.
Nothing about Alex’s death had rung right from the moment he’d heard the news. And now, with what he’d seen last night, he knew trouble was brewing. As president he’d had to treat Lucius Vance with kid gloves, since the Speaker of the House could cause the executive branch lots of problems. As a senator no such caution would be necessary. That was the great thing about the U.S. Senate. Members could do whatever they wanted, with few repercussions besides what their voters might think. And what an arsenal at his disposal. Unlimited debate, on any topic, without censorship. And without stoppage, except by a vote of sixty members, which was nearly impossible to obtain.
A hell of a pulpit.
So if what Vance was planning needed Senate approval, good damn luck with that.
He’d kill it dead.
He continued to hold Stephanie’s hand, grateful they were alone. He’d told the guard outside to let no one other than doctors and nurses inside.
Appearances be damned. If she pulled through this there’d be no more delays, no more denials. Time for them both to live life out in the open.
His anger started to wane, replaced by a hollow, deflated feeling of loneliness.
“I love you,” he whispered.
* * *
Cassiopeia, Lea, and Terry Morse fled the mine shaft through the archway dug from the rubble at the exit. Cassiopeia moved ahead, armed with a weapon from one of the men back in the chamber, Morse still carrying his shotgun. The steady hum of a generator, loud inside the cavern, faded as they rushed away. Morning had arrived over the trees to the east. They stopped among the rubble, staring out at the clearing that lay between the camp and the beginnings of the forest, where the dirt road led back to the highway. To their right was a black tarp covering something and she quickly checked what was underneath.
Gold bars.
Maybe fifty or more.
“Their last load,” she said. “That means people are coming back.”
“I figured you’d be here,” Morse said to Lea.
“How did you know?”
“’Cause the daddy of that boyfriend of yours is a sentinel.”
“That can’t be. His uncle was, not his daddy.”
“That’s what a good sentinel does. He never lets people know what he is. But he’s got arthritis and isn’t able to do much anymore, so I’ve been coverin’ for him. And don’t think we don’t know about you and his boy. We do. But we let it go, since you’re both good kids.”
Cassiopeia was impressed with the old man’s style.
“I woke up and everyone was gone,” Morse said. “I heard when Malone left. But you two? Where else would she have taken you? Sentinels keep each other informed. I’ve been knowin’ somethin’ was happening out here for days. So I took a guess.”
“How’d you get here?” Cassiopeia asked him.
“Borrowed a car from a friend at the lodge, the same one that told me about you and Malone.”
Morse was watching the woods, as was she, both of them alert for any signs of movement.
“These men are the real deal,” she told Morse.
“Not like dumb me and those fakes?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I get what you meant,” Morse said, his attention remaining on the rapidly dissipating darkness.
“You killed a man,” Lea said to her grandfather, concern in her voice.
“It had to be done, child.”
Cassiopeia agreed, but wanted to know, “Is the Witch’s Stone safe?”
Mo
rse nodded. “I made sure.”
“Then take Lea and head back to the lodge.”
“Where are you goin’?” he asked.
“To find the man who just tried to kill me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Grant remained still, stunned that someone was here. It could simply be one of the security guards or a construction worker, surprised to see an intruder. He had Thomas’ ID and he might be able to bluff his way out. Then again, why take the chance?
A door opened off to his right and voices could be heard. More people had entered the demolished hall. He used that moment of distraction to regrip the iron strut, which lay at his feet beside the Trail Stone.
“Get up,” came the command from behind him.
Conversation continued in the distance, echoing through the hall. He had to move fast. So he rose, with the strut in hand, pivoted his body to the right, and flung the iron bar sideways like a Frisbee. At the same time he dropped back to the floor and rolled, still holding his cell phone, and managed a look back. The strut swooshed through the air, then slid across the concrete. The man who’d been there had leaped out of the way, offering him a moment where escape might be possible.
But he saw a gun in the man’s hand.
This was no construction worker.
He scampered right, using a Sheetrock partition for protection, which blocked any shot coming his way. The source of the voices he’d heard was just ahead. Three people in hard hats who’d entered from a far door.
He knew where that exit led.
Into the research wings, for staff only.
* * *
Cotton dodged the strut.
He’d seen the man grip the iron bar, so he was ready. What he hadn’t anticipated was other people entering the hall. He’d told Stamm to seal the place off, but apparently not everyone had gotten the memo.
His target was trying to flee, walls blocking both his view and any shot. Whatever the man had been after had apparently been concealed within an exhibit. Some sort of coral reef, now demolished, a huge slash marring the fake wall. Another stone lay on the concrete floor, its face loaded with etchings, similar to the one in Arkansas. But that was not his primary concern at the moment. Instead, he had to corral the man trying to escape.