“No, no, no,” Dobson responded, waving his arms as if signaling a missed field goal attempt. “Not a speaker, a projector. Not a magnet, but a storage device.
“You see, the ancient culture that fashioned the projector lying by your hand discovered a way to naturally emit sound waves through stone. With this technology, they could cut and move other objects, communicate over long distances, heal injuries and create power for irrigation. It was so simple yet so profound in its use.”
Anlon wrinkled his brow and nose in a gesture of disbelief. “How did Devlin know all of this? I mean how did he figure out it was used for these purposes?”
“Excellent question!” Dobson answered with a proud smile etched upon his face. “They told us all we needed to know on the storage device next to the projector.”
“Huh? You’re saying that this square piece of rock is like a flash drive? And who is ‘they’ exactly? And how did Devlin figure out how to access the drive?” Anlon challenged, his arms folded across his chest.
“Yes, yes, all good questions. ‘They’ refers to the culture that created the technology, or at least used it, to record on the stone. Your uncle called them the Stone Benders,” Dobson clarified. “And Devlin’s research assistant, Pacal, is the one who stumbled on the clue that helped Devlin figure it out.
“Pacal was in Devlin’s office in the barn just up the driveway from here unpacking from an excursion we’d all gone on in Peru. He happened to remove a compass from one of the backpacks and when he put on the counter, it went haywire. Curious, the little fellow picked up the compass and jiggled it. He turned in a circle to see if he could reorient the compass and noticed that when he held it in certain directions, the compass returned to normal. So he concluded there must be something in the shop that was disrupting the magnet in the compass.
“So he walked around the shop holding the compass before him and slowly narrowed down the source of the disruption to the red stone sitting in a tray on Devlin’s artifact shelves. Excited, he ran out of the shop and down the hill to the house to tell Devlin of his discovery. I was sitting in this very room when he burst through the door chattering in half Portuguese, half English. He told Devlin his story and Devlin raced up to the shop. He stayed there all night puzzling over it, and then he had one of those ‘aha’ moments. Simple as that!”
“Simple? I’d say extraordinary!” Anlon exclaimed as he drained his scotch. “If it’s not data, then what’s on the stone?”
“This will be the hardest to believe, I’m afraid. It is more of a narrated video of a slice of time before the cataclysmic event occurred that wiped it all away, accumulated by one of the survivors of the event,” explained the old man.
His words hung in the air as Anlon’s head swooned further. Without a word, he shot a sharp glance at Dobson and then the scotch bottle, back at Dobson, and then grabbed the bottle and refilled his glass.
Gulping down half the glass in a single swallow, Anlon fell back on the couch, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. This was too much to take, he thought. Uncle Devlin had always been a little off in his interests, but he was a solid scientist and researcher. If what Dobson said was all true, he began to understand why Devlin wanted to keep it quiet. This was beyond controversial — it was downright heretical, as Dobson had said earlier.
But it was also amazing. The more Anlon contemplated what Dobson told him the more curious and excited he became. Goosebumps ran up the back of his neck considering the implications. Hell, if they hadn’t discovered anything else beyond a recording of historical events from 10,000 years ago that showed advanced societies, it would still be the greatest discovery of all time.
“Wow,” Anlon finally exhaled unfolding his arms and pushing his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Perfectly understandable, young man. It is stunning to say the least. And hold onto your hat, I’ve only told you a little of what Devlin uncovered. His research went much deeper and his discoveries go far beyond these two simple objects. And as I said at the outset, his work is unfinished. He was on the trail of four new lines of inquiry when he fell from that cliff. Mind you, I don’t really think he fell.”
“Whoa, say what?” Anlon responded. “You don’t think Devlin’s fall was an accident?”
With pursed lips Dobson paused and slowly wagged his head back and forth before declaring, “No sir, I do not.”
Jesus, what else was Dobson going to reveal, Anlon thought. The old man’s face twisted into a resolute snarl to emphasize his conviction.
“What about Devlin’s death makes you think it wasn’t an accident? I thought you said he fell off a cliff. Do you think he was pushed?”
Dobson winced and said, “Yes…and no.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, my boy, that I think he was lured to the mountain by someone and that someone sent him over the edge to his death,” Dobson posited.
“So he was pushed?” Anlon countered.
“Not in the traditional sense. There was no trail along the ridge above where his body was found. I know, I went and snooped myself. And there were no defensive injuries on his body to indicate a struggle. At least, that’s what the police said when I asked them whether it was possible he might have been pushed,” said Dobson.
“So you talked to the police about your suspicions? Did they take them seriously?”
Dobson lowered his head and stared at the floor, “Yes. I had to go identify the body. I didn’t want to believe he fell. It seemed inconceivable to me that he would take such a risk to climb to where he supposedly fell from. And why the White Mountains? Devlin had never mentioned them in all our conversations of potential sites to explore. And why did he go off on the excursion in the first place? It was very unusual of him to go to a site without me or Pacal, or both of us!”
Anlon listened to Dobson intently. Though he had been a stalwart friend and colleague to Devlin for over 30 years, he also had been a wise and level headed counselor that had served as a balance to Devlin’s crazy notions on numerous occasions. At least, that’s how it seemed from the stories they’d shared with him over the years. So Anlon gave Dobson’s misgivings the benefit of the doubt. Instead of challenging Dobson, he asked, “Okay, if we accept all of that, what do you think happened?”
Dobson fidgeted nervously and continued to stare down at his weather-beaten boots. To Anlon, he was obviously very conflicted. It didn’t seem right to push him any further on the subject.
At last Dobson raised his head and shrugged his shoulders, saying “Ah, I’m probably imagining things. Look, I’m pretty beat and think I’ve already given you plenty to chew on. Let’s call it a night and we can reconvene here again tomorrow and pick it up from there. And besides, Pacal should be here tomorrow too and he can help fill in some blanks.”
Anlon reluctantly agreed. He was beat too and there was no way he could absorb any more without the chance to clear his head and go over their conversation in peace and quiet. He polished off his scotch and said, “Sounds like a plan. I’m really glad you asked to meet with me and share all of this. I know it must have been hard to keep these discoveries a secret.”
“Not at all,” Dobson replied as they both stood to leave. He stepped over to the fireplace, closed the glass doors and shut off the gas feed with a flick of the remote control resting on the mantle, quickly extinguishing the fire as the wind rattled the glass doors. “Are you planning to stay in the Professor’s home while you sort out his affairs? I understand he bequeathed it to you.”
“I’m not sure. Honestly, the last 24 hours have been such a whirlwind, I don’t know what I’m going to do about any of his estate. I don’t feel comfortable yet staying in his house. For the time being, I think I’ll just stick with the Two Lanterns Inn in Stockbridge,” answered Anlon.
Nodding with understanding, Dobson carefully placed the two objects back in the black box and returned them to the safe. Motioning Anlon over, he s
aid, “Come over here and let’s get your fingerprint registered with the safe lock so you can open the safe yourself. These artifacts are too precious to just leave out on the table.”
After recording the fingerprints of Anlon’s right index and middle fingers two separate times each, Dobson handed him a slip of paper with the security codes for the safe, the office barn alarm and the house alarm. He then provided Anlon with a tutorial on setting and disabling the house and barn security systems.
Outside, shivering in the late night chill, they stepped towards their respective cars and shouted farewells over the competing howls of the cold front moving through. Tired as they were, they didn’t notice the black-clad figure hiding at the edge of the woods observing their farewell through swaying leaf-covered branches.
It was the last time Anlon saw Dobson alive.
III
RUDE AWAKENING
The pounding was faint at first, a part of Anlon’s dream. It sounded like a drum beat to his scotch-bleared, semi-conscious mind. He found himself amidst a tribunal of sorts with natives banging on drums as he stood before a blazing fire and the watchful eyes of a menacing inquisitor. The pounding rose louder and more urgent and the natives in his dream circled him closer and closer. He began to panic, unsure what to do or where to run. His head writhed back and forth against the pillow as if trying to escape the natives and the dream.
His eyes fluttered open in the brightly lit room and he cringed. Too much scotch, he thought. Only then did he notice that the pounding was real. Someone was at his hotel room door knocking with gusto. A raspy female voice called, “Anlon Cully? Are you in there?”
“Hold on, hold on, I was asleep,” he called back, sitting up gingerly in bed, tossing aside the sheets and kneading his throbbing forehead with both hands. Padding over to the hotel door in a t-shirt and boxers, he darted a look at the alarm clock, 7:13 a.m. it read. He continued, “Who is this and what do you want?”
“Detective Lieutenant Jennifer Stevens from the Massachusetts State Police. I need to speak to you about Matthew Dobson,” she bellowed through the door.
Anlon took a step back from the door with a quizzical look on his face and said, “Dobson? Can’t this wait for a more reasonable hour? It’s Sunday after all.”
“It’s early for us all Mr. Cully. I’m sorry, but it can’t wait I’m afraid,” she replied.
On her side of the door, Det. Lt. Stevens was already annoyed. First, her morning run had been interrupted by the unexpected call from her boss, Detective Captain Bruno Gambelli. He’d given her a quick run-down of the details of a suspicious death on the outskirts of Stockbridge and tasked her to find, detain and question a Mr. Anlon Cully immediately.
Stevens had dashed home, taken a lightning quick shower, tossed on clothes and raced to the Two Lanterns Inn, where she’d met up with two uniformed officers from the local Stockbridge Police Department.
Next, Stevens had contended with the calcitrant inn manager, Mrs. Katherine Neally, whom she’d inconveniently rousted from her morning coffee and pastry to acquire Mr. Cully’s room number. Mrs. Neally was protective of her guests and expressed distaste over Steven’s brusque response when she inquired as to the nature of the room number request.
After Stevens blurted a few threats that drew hidden snickers from the local officers, Mrs. Neally begrudgingly searched the computer room registry and led the police trio up the creaking wood stairs of the historic inn’s central staircase to Anlon’s door.
With the harried hotel manager standing beside her imploring her to lower her voice, Stevens pounded on the door again. Other guests, disturbed from their sleep, peeked out into the hallway to ascertain the cause of the commotion. Mrs. Neally whispered an apology and reassured them that all was well.
“Alright, alright. Hold on a second,” Anlon called. He turned and fished the jeans and black sweatshirt he wore the night before from the chair beside his suitcase and tossed them on. Moving towards the door he made a perfunctory effort to arrange his wildly disheveled hair before reaching for the doorknob.
Tapping her foot restlessly against the hardwood floor outside the room, Detective Lt. Stevens’ hoarse voice replied, “Please just open the door Mr. Cully.”
Anlon’s cloudy mind had not expected what met his eyes on the other side of the door when he finally cracked it open. Det. Lt. Stevens was not alone. By her side stood two large, intimidating uniformed officers with stern faces and holstered weapons. But Anlon’s eyes were transfixed on her.
Intense, blonde and athletic, she appeared nothing like what Anlon expected, given her gravelly tone. Thirty-something, clad in a charcoal grey pant suit that was clearly tailored to accent her curves, she stood with badge extended for Anlon’s inspection. Her golden hair was tugged into a tight bun and her forehead glistened with perspiration, as she had yet to fully cool down from her run and quick shower.
He nodded in recognition as he offered a polite smile. She returned the badge to her belt and pressed into the room. As she did, her suit jacket lifted to reveal a cranberry blouse dampened in spots and a holstered Glock.
He started to protest but was cut off by the diminutive and obviously flustered Mrs. Neally, who also nudged into the room behind the two uniformed officers. “Is everything all right, Mr. Cully?”
“I don’t know, you tell me!” he exclaimed, throwing his exasperated arms to the heavens.
“Well, I’d appreciate it if the four of you conduct your conversation with discretion so as not to bother the other guests,” she scolded as she straightened her jacket and smoothed her frazzled fiery red hair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Neally,” interjected Stevens as she waved an impatient goodbye with her hand. “We’ll do our best. Now if we could have some privacy please.”
With a harrumph, Mrs. Neally spun on her heels and stomped away. Stevens motioned to one of the uniformed officers to close the room door.
Awaking from the slow motion trance that ensnared him as the surreal scene unfolded, Anlon was reminded of his throbbing head and realized that he likely looked as terrible as he felt. He replied, “Okay, what’s this all about?”
“Do you know a Mr. Matthew Dobson?” Stevens inquired, ignoring Anlon’s question. She stood now with notepad in hand peering at Anlon’s face. Though she was putting on the “one tough bitch” routine to unsettle Anlon, it came across with extra relish given her irritation dealing with the snooty Mrs. Neally.
“Yes, of course I know Dobson. He’s a long-time family friend. Is he in some kind of trouble?” Anlon asked, wondering if Dobson had maybe had one too many scotches last night and been pulled over for driving under the influence.
“Mr. Dobson was found dead this morning,” she shot back, “and from evidence recovered at the scene, you seem to be the last person to see him alive.”
She studied his face for a reaction. His eyes widened, a puzzled look emerged across his face and he staggered backwards a step. He shook his head in denial. “What? Dobson is dead? I don’t believe it. How?”
Anlon’s mind was swimming. He barely was awake, still trying to absorb last night’s revelations from Dobson, and now through a hangover, he was confronted by the news Dobson was dead. He needed some time to gather his senses, and all of a sudden he felt oddly self-conscious about his rumpled appearance with the trio hulking around him.
Stevens replied, “I’m not at liberty to say at the moment. May we conduct a quick search of your room?”
“Um, okay,” he said as she brushed past him, nudging his shoulder. Her delicate floral perfume wafted over him in sharp contrast to her hardened manner as she motioned to the two uniformed officers.
“Can we hold up a minute Detective? I have no idea what’s going on here. Why do you need to search my room? What happened to Dobson and why are you here?”
Stevens didn’t bother looking over her shoulder while she continued to paw through his belongings and replied, “It’s Detective Lieutenant. And I guess you’ll find out soo
n enough. He was found by a neighbor out walking her dog this morning. He was dead, sitting in his car in his driveway. And next to him on the seat was his iPad with your name and hotel information listed in his calendar, alongside an appointment with you for last night at 10:00 p.m.”
Soaking in that information, Anlon began to connect the dots and incredulously inquired, “And so you think what? That I killed him? And you’re here searching for evidence? How stupid would I be to kill a man, leave evidence of my meeting with him and then return back to my hotel and go to sleep?”
“Murderers do stupid things all the time, Mr. Cully. Not of course implying you are either stupid or a murderer. But we have to chase leads as fast as we find them when there is a suspicious death. And the circumstances of Mr. Dobson’s death are definitely suspicious. Find anything?” she asked the two officers.
“No, nothing so far. His car keys are on the table over there. We should give it a look. Where is it parked sir?” asked one of the officers.
“Look,” Anlon countered, “this is crazy, but you can search the car all you want. It’s a rental car, small blue Chevy SUV. I don’t know what kind of Chevy it is. There’s nothing in it but the rental car ticket, but you are welcome to look. But can we just slow down a minute. Christ, I haven’t fully woken up yet.”
He flopped down on the edge of the bed and threw his hands up in the air again. Stevens strutted to where he sat and peered down at him with arms crossed. “I know it’s a shock Mr. Cully and I know it’s an intrusion, but it’s necessary. While they go check the car, let’s talk.”
Stevens stood back and leaned against the bureau opposing the bed. Looking over Anlon from head to toe, it seemed to her he had been genuinely caught off guard. He smelled of alcohol and his short, wavy grey/blonde hair lay in a modern art-like pattern pushed to one side of his head, presumably by the pillow he’d laid against. His black sweatshirt was wrinkled, his face was stubbled and he wore no socks or shoes. Cautious to keep an open mind while at the same time rabidly intent on following the lead the Captain assigned her, Stevens softened her tone and bearing ever so slightly.
Shadows of the Stone Benders (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 1) Page 3