"I need to find someone's plot."
"Dead or alive? There are 34,000 plots in this cemetery and 23,000 have somebody in them."
"Dead. Interred in 1946. World War II casualty."
"That eliminates everything on this side of the canal. On a normal day I would just look it up for you but, as I said, my computer is down." She handed him two pieces of paper. "Here's a map of the cemetery and instructions to access the Fort Collins website. If you have access to a computer, you can look it up yourself. The server is working, it's just my computer that's on the fritz."
Jake took the papers and thanked the woman. Her phone started ringing again.
"We have several World War II veterans and casualties scattered throughout the cemetery but the majority of them are buried in Section E." She picked up the phone. "Hold please." She placed the receiver down.
"Section E?"
"Section E was designed and plotted to commemorate how this city's forefathers traveled here, by wagon train. Section E is laid out in a circular hub and spoke pattern. Like a wagon wheel. You'll understand when you see the website."
Jake raised the papers. "Thank you." He turned and walked out of the office.
He got back in his car, pulled out his iPad, and logged in to the Fort Collins website. It was a good thing she gave him the instruction sheet because the website was not very intuitive. When he reached the Grandview Cemetery page, he used the search feature and entered the name George Fontaine had given him. After he located the gravesite he was looking for, he clicked in the checkbox by the name and hit 'Zoom to Selected.' The virtual map zoomed in and detailed the plot in the graveyard. The woman in the office was right, the plot for Section E did mimic a wagon wheel.
Jake started the car and drove into the cemetery.
He crossed a concrete bridge that spanned a small canal. Rustic stone sidewalls with built-in flower receptacles lined the bridge. He circled around Section E until he was near the location of the grave, parked his car, and walked into the cemetery scanning for the marker with the correct name. Walking through the rows of headstones, looking at the names and lifespan of the deceased, Jake thought about how many young men had lost their lives protecting this country. His father and grandfather had served in the Navy, just as he had.
In another section of the cemetery were a young woman and small child. She held the little girl with one hand and carried fresh flowers in her other. They stopped at a gravesite where the woman knelt down and placed the flowers in a metal vase.
A short distance beyond them was a maintenance man trimming grass with a hand-held trimmer. Blue smoke billowed from the machine. The hum of the gas-powered engine filled the air.
His eyes stopped at a large silver spruce tree. Beneath it was a spire shaped granite marker. The name engraved in the stone was Michael Patterson Roundtree. A 1945 casualty of World War II.
The name George Fontaine had given him.
Jake pulled out his phone, marked it with his enhanced GPS, and smiled. "I'll be back tonight, Mr. Roundtree."
48
According to the Fort Collins website, Michael Patterson Roundtree was a military veteran. No other designation. According to Fontaine's research, in 1992, Roundtree was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for bravery in action during combat.
What Jake found most interesting was what the journal described hidden inside Roundtree's casket. In 1944, seven paintings by Peter Paul Rubens, among others, were looted from Gemäldegalerie, an art museum in Berlin. One painting by Rubens, believed stolen by the Russians, was rumored hidden somewhere in Moscow or St. Petersburg, but Adams's notations in the journal told of a different fate of the famous artwork. The entry in the journal beside the name Roundtree listed The March of the Silenus by Peter Paul Rubens as sealed inside his casket.
Jake checked his watch, 3:15 p.m., at least nine hours before the blackmailer would try to make a move on the Grandview Cemetery. To satisfy his curiosity, he decided to go to the Main Library to research Michael Patterson Roundtree. He parked in the lot on Remington Street where East Oak Street ends and walked the two blocks toward the library.
He liked Old Town Fort Collins. It was interesting how locals liked to brag about the history of their towns. He'd learned some of the unique architecture in Old Town served as inspiration for Disneyland's Main Street USA. He wondered if after tonight they would brag about the discovery of long lost art found in a graveyard. He smiled.
The fresh air was crisp and clean. And dry. The high humidity in the east during the summer was like living in a sauna. He liked the big trees planted decades ago throughout downtown. Colorado's Front Range was a barren high desert typically devoid of trees. Fort Collins seemed an exception.
When he walked past the St. Peters Fly Shop on East Oak Street, he had an overwhelming urge to try his hand at fly-fishing in the area. He'd heard the streams and rivers in Northern Colorado were brimming with trout. He fought off his desire to go in the shop, determined to end Project Resurrection tonight.
He passed the boarded up Fort Collins Museum. The sign in front of the closed museum indicated it had been relocated a few blocks away. Behind the museum was the Old Town branch of the Poudre River Public Library. He entered the recently remodeled library and was directed to the second floor to access the reference section and the library computers.
Within minutes of using the library's computers, he found what he was searching for, a 1992 newspaper article about Michael Patterson Roundtree's posthumous awarding of the Medal of Honor. The photo attached with the article showed a young man in uniform the day he was shipped off to Germany in 1944 to fight in World War II.
The man in the picture was black.
* * *
Francesca located Ashley Regan's rental car in front of an urgent care facility in Knoxville, Tennessee. If Jake was right about decompression sickness, she was surprised Christa Barnett was able to drive this far without medical attention.
Francesca entered the urgent care's lobby and walked directly to the receptionist. She placed a photo of Barnett on the counter and pulled her counterfeit FBI credentials from her pocket. "I need to speak to the doctor in charge of this patient immediately." She demanded.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. But he's with a patient right now."
"This can't wait. Get him."
"But, ma'am."
"Get him." Francesca's tone changed to match her frustration with the receptionist.
A minute later a man with a graying mustache in a white lab coat came through the door. "I'm Dr. Miller. What's this about?"
Francesca put the picture in front of him. "It's about this woman. Is she here?"
"What's she done?" He asked.
"Dr. Miller, I'm not here to answer questions. I'm here to get my questions answered. Now, is this woman here?"
"She came in last night. I sent her to U-T Medical Center."
"U-T? What's that?"
"University of Tennessee Medical Center."
"I see." Francesca looked at the doctor. She didn't like him. He'd already copped a defensive posture. "What was wrong with her?"
"Doctor-Patient privilege."
She had had it with his insolent attitude. "Dr. Miller, every heard of the Patriot Act? This is a matter of national security so I suggest you cooperate or I'll haul your ass in for interfering with an investigation. Now this is the last time I'll ask. What was wrong with her?"
"She had fever and chills accompanied with stiffness in her arms and legs. Said she was scuba diving and surfaced too fast. I sent her to UT Medical Center for hyperbaric oxygen therapy."
"Thank you, doctor." Francesca stepped closer. "Now that wasn't so difficult was it?"
She turned and left never giving Miller a chance to respond. She called Wiley with the news.
By the time she got to the Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy room at the University of Tennessee Medical Center, Wiley had posted armed guards at the door. Through the window she saw a small room with several mach
ines and a clear tube in the middle. A male nurse and woman in a lab coat were inside. She assumed the treating physician was the woman standing over the clear tube talking to the woman lying inside the chamber.
After Francesca identified herself, the guards let her pass. She entered the room and got the attention of the physician. "Is this Christa Barnett?" She asked.
"That's about all I know," the doctor said. "That and she had some sort of scuba diving accident."
"Are you her treating physician?" Francesca asked.
"Yes." The woman held out her hand. "Dr. Flanagan."
Francesca shook her hand. Flanagan wasn't a tall woman, several inches shorter than she was. She had thick brown hair and a pleasing smile. "Dr. Flanagan, has Ms. Barnett indicated how the accident happened?"
"No. She hasn't said much of anything. She's traumatized and very emotional."
Francesca looked at the chamber. She could see Barnett's eyes were red and swollen from crying. "How much longer in the chamber?"
The doctor looked at her watch. "She's been in there since around nine o'clock last night so what's that, twenty hours? I should be able to release her in the morning provided she gets follow up care. She still isn't out of the woods. "
"Can she be released sooner?" Francesca asked.
"I don't want to risk it." She pointed to the door. "Is all that really necessary? Two guards? She can't even get out of the chamber unless it's opened from the outside."
"I'm afraid so, doctor. And make it three guards."
"Three?"
"I'll be staying all night as well."
* * *
Jake parked his rental behind the Fort Collins Housing Authority building on Mountain Avenue. He pulled into an empty slot between a beat up dark colored van with plastic taped over the left rear window and a flat bed truck. It was approaching midnight and he hadn't seen any cars in the past five minutes.
He slipped a silenced Glock into the holster. A throw down weapon, just in case. He grabbed his penlight and night vision spyglass from his backpack, and slipped them into pockets in his specially designed tactical wardrobe. Lastly, he pulled a black beanie cap over his head to camouflage his blond hair.
When he stepped from the vehicle he felt ready for anything.
He avoided the streetlights as he made the less than five-minute walk to the Grandview Cemetery. He passed the darkened cemetery office building. A light breeze stirred the vines draping from the roof. The sky was clear and the moon was bright. In the moonlight, the headstones struck a strong contrast against the dark green grass.
He crossed the stone bridge spanning the small canal and could see the amber glow from the forest fires behind the mountains to the west.
It had been Colorado's worst fire year on record and had been in the news for weeks. And as bad as the fires were west of Fort Collins, the fires further to the south were even worse. According to the local newspaper, this year's fires had closed Lory State Park just west of Horsetooth Reservoir. Tourists, hikers, and campers were forced to evacuate with less than a day's notice. Fire tankers were flown in from all over the United States and Canada to help but when the fires broke out to the south, many of those tankers were pulled and relocated to the more populated areas near Colorado Springs.
Jake used his phone's GPS to orient himself and followed the dirt road until he reached Section E in the Grandview Cemetery. He stepped quietly; always cognizant he might not be alone in the graveyard. His peripheral vision caught two eyes staring at him. He froze and crouched low. He pulled his weapon from the holster and retrieved his night vision spyglass, another one of Wiley's specialty gadgets. The eyes raised and ran off. A cat. Jake holstered his gun. Stupid cat almost lost all nine lives tonight.
When he was in the cemetery earlier in the day, he noticed a large monument under a low-hanging blue spruce tree with the family name Crane. The grave of Michael Patterson Roundtree was fifteen feet inside the wagon wheel design from the Crane marker. The space between the spruce tree and the Crane marker offered him an ideal location to await his prey, with a clear vantage point of anyone approaching Roundtree's grave.
By ten minutes past midnight, Jake had settled beneath the canopy of the large spruce tree. Now came the hard part—sit and wait.
49
At 1:45 a.m., Jake saw headlights on Mountain Avenue coming toward the cemetery. One of the things he'd noticed about the western states was most of the roads were oriented either East-West or North-South. And they were long and straight. When the vehicle reached the entrance, it made a u-turn, headed east, and slowed. Jake pulled out his spyglass and searched for the vehicle.
It stopped in front of the Fort Collins Housing Authority. Same place he'd parked. He hoped his vehicle wouldn't raise suspicion. He readied himself. It shouldn't be long now and he would be facing Rudd's blackmailer.
Almost ten minutes passed and no sign of anybody. He remembered Wiley's advice; Always let your quarry come to you. He remained silent. Then he heard it. A faint sound at first, steadily growing louder. A shuffle step followed by a clank. Shuffle step. Clank.
The noise grew closer when another sound startled him. He heard a snort and then the sound of hooves pounding against the ground. It grew stronger. The ground felt like a stampede. The blackmailer had startled several deer and one of them was running straight at Jake. He pulled himself flush against the Crane grave marker. The Grandview Cemetery was a regular zoo at night, he thought.
Jake listened. Nothing.
The shuffle step had stopped. Jake knew the blackmailer must be close.
Too close for him to move.
A few moments later the blackmailer moved enabling Jake to get a better fix on the intruder's location. He eased a glance around the stone marker.
His target, shovel in hand.
The dark figure was hunched over a grave. A beam of light flashed across the marker of Michael Patterson Roundtree.
Jake silently withdrew his gun and stepped from behind the Crane monument.
"Arthur DeLoach. I've been expecting you."
The old man jumped. Even in the pale moonlight, Jake thought he could see the distress on the old man's face.
"How? Who are you?"
"I've come to put an end to your grave robbing," Jake said.
"How…how could you know?"
"Wasn't difficult. The Internet is a wonderful tool. You can research anything you want, but it leaves a trail. A cyber trail. And that's what you did. You left a trail. And the breadcrumbs led me here."
"What are you talking about?"
"You never should have tried to blackmail the President."
"What are you talking about?" The old man truly sounded surprised. "I haven't blackmailed anyone."
"Mr. DeLoach, We know about everything. We know you either copied or scanned Ashley Regan's journal when she brought it to you for restoration. We know you've been selectively digging up graves with stolen artwork in the caskets. What you didn't keep in your Charleston home, you sold."
"Sold? I have sold nothing." The old man sounded indignant. "You have made presumptuous accusations. The Nazis were the thieves who stole those art pieces. All I wanted to do is return them to their rightful place, the museums."
"Everything in your home has been seized," Jake said. "All of the art confiscated. Everything you have done has been for naught."
"You've been in my home?"
Jake nodded.
"You don't understand. When Ashley Regan brought me the book, I knew its value. I speak German. I knew what was in that journal. If I hadn't done it, she would have." DeLoach said. "She is the one who would have sold them. I have an appreciation and understanding of great art. These pieces need to be displayed where art lovers can go and enjoy them. If she had taken them then there is no telling where they would have ended up. These pieces don't belong in someone's private collection. They belong to the people. They should be in a museum. Ashley Regan is an idiot."
"Ashley Regan is dead.
"
"Dead?" DeLoach wobbled on shaky legs. "Oh my. No one was supposed to get hurt. I didn't want anything like that to happen."
"You should have turned this over to the authorities. People have died. And now, you're going to jail."
"I don't understand. I was so careful. How did you know? How did you find me?"
"Like I said, you can't blackmail the President of the United States and expect to get away with it. Those emails you sent were traced back to your computer. A tracker virus was uploaded and we followed you from cemetery to cemetery. Your computer led me here."
"My computer is at home." DeLoach's voice had become somber. "I never sent any emails."
"No, but I did."
The voice came from behind him. Before Jake could turn around, a blunt metal object slammed into his back. He fell to his knees. Pain radiated across his upper back.
"Zula Mae. No." DeLoach yelled.
50
The last thing he remembered was the old man yelling somebody's name. As he regained consciousness he heard two people talking. Arthur DeLoach and a woman. She must have been the one who hit him from behind. Jake's head throbbed after she hit him with something and knocked him unconscious. His back hurt. His neck hurt. He lay face down on the ground and listened, trying to recap in his mind what had just happened and plan his next move.
He'd never considered DeLoach might not be working alone. In retrospect, he should have. The man was old, very old, and probably incapable of digging up the graves himself. It stood to reason he needed an accomplice with a strong back.
Jake tried to move. The groan was involuntary.
"Should I hit him again, Mr. Arthur?" The woman asked.
"No, Zula Mae. He's had enough." DeLoach responded.
"But, Mr. Arthur. You heard him. He knows everything. We have to kill him."
"Nobody dies tonight, Zula Mae." DeLoach paused. "Are you responsible for sending that email? Did you really try to blackmail the President of the United States?"
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