Crown of Serpents
Page 5
Same time. High Point Casino and Resort.
ALEX NERO HEARD the sound of his private elevator door opening behind him. He puffed on the last inch of his cigar.
“Sir?” a woman’s voice announced.
A snarl formed on his face as he exhaled. He had made specific instructions not to be disturbed. He turned around. It was the director of his collection, an unassuming, unnatural blonde named Anne Stanton. As the fifth director in the two years since his mother died, she had lasted the longest. It was her resourcefulness in landing new additions to his collection that had kept her steadily employed in the high-turnover, high-demand position. Dressed in business attire with contemporary black eyeglasses, she stood nervously with notepad and pen in hand. Nero demanded an explanation for her appearance.
“I apologize sir, but this is breaking news I wanted you to know before you left for Buffalo.”
“Better be good Miss Stanton,” Nero said in his trademark raspy voice. He pulled on his cigar and deliberately exhaled smoke into the woman’s face.
She looked down at her notes and stifled a cough. “News10Now out of central New York just reported an accident in Seneca County.”
“Go on.”
“Apparently, a hunter discovered an old Indian grave on an island in some swamp. The hunter then fell into a limestone fissure and died before rescuers could get to him.”
“Continue,” Nero said, interested by the mention of the Indian grave. He couldn’t care less about a backwoods hunter dying.
Stanton spoke rapidly. “The reporter quoted an emergency official who said that a piece of old jewelry was found on the Indian corpse in the grave. It was made of pure silver and had a symbol on it.” She looked up at him. “I thought immediately of another addition to your collection, sir. And with you as the head of the burial committee, I thought you’d be in a good position to, you know, guide the committee again. That’s why I wanted to let you know before heading out.”
“Was this symbol described in the report?” Nero asked.
“Ah, yes,” said Stanton. She looked back down at her notes. “I remembered everything you’ve said about pursuing leads associated with white deer representations, so this fits. It was a stag with a snake inside of it, engraved on the piece of silver. And there’s more about the actual grave too, which is described as—”
Nero tuned the woman out, waving his hand to silence her. He had heard enough. He was speechless. His heart raced. Could it be the sign at last? He grew dizzy and supported himself against the railing. His cigar dropped at his feet in a shower of red sparks.
Was this the first real hard evidence after all the years of collecting artifacts — sometimes stealing them outright — in search of just one clue that would lead him to his ultimate obsession? Could this be the moment he had been waiting for — actual proof that the guardian cult who protected his prize had even existed? But it comes upon notice of my death. It must be true. The prophecy was in motion. If only Mother were here.
He was simply blown away. He wiped a clammy hand across his sweaty receding hairline.
“Mr. Nero, are you okay?” Stanton asked. She placed a comforting hand on his elbow.
“I’m fine,” he growled, his mind spinning, hands shaking. He shook her hand off his arm. “We must move quickly on this. Take notes.”
“I’m ready.”
Nero paced. “Get me a transcript or a video of that report. I want pictures of this piece of jewelry and the symbolism on it. I want to see it. I want to purchase it. Set up an appointment immediately. Find out about the Indian grave, its exact location and if anything else was found inside. You stay on this story. Drop everything else you’re working on. I want a full report by the time I get back tonight.”
“Of course. I’ll get everything you need. My pleasure.”
“Fine work young lady. Very fine work.”
Stanton smiled nervously at receiving such a rare compliment. “Thank you, sir.” She then bore a cold face and forced herself to say, “And good luck with your appointment at Roswell today. You can beat this, sir.”
Nero stomped out the smoldering cigar, ignoring her. He walked over to the elevator for a quick trip down to the lobby.
Through the casino and out the front entrance he snapped his fingers at his bodyguards and entered his Hummer. As his driver raced down the winding mountain road toward the reservoir, Nero reached inside of his coat. He placed a call to his special contractor, an Onondaga Indian named Ray Kantiio, nicknamed The Mouth. It was he who had taken care of the disloyal pit boss the night before.
“Mouth? Where are you? Who’s that in the background?”
A groggy Kantiio answered. “I’m up in the Adirondacks now. Took off after I sealed the barrel. Got a cutie with me on my vacation time.”
“Finish up with her. Grab some coffee. Get on the road. You’re going to Seneca County tonight to do some sniffing around for me.”
“Jesus, I need some time off after the gig last night. That was some nasty work I did.”
“Shut the fuck up. We’re on our way to sink the barrel right now, then I’ve got a flight to catch. Here’s what I want—”
5
New York State Thruway.
AFTER SETTING THE cruise control and adjusting his cell phone’s hands-free earpiece, Jake settled back in his SUV’s bucket seat. He had just merged his white, government-issued truck onto the New York State Thruway at the Waterloo entrance ramp. He looked forward to an uneventful hour ride up to Rochester for the day’s first appointment. Stiff-arming the steering wheel, he rehashed in his mind his meeting with the investigator. Considering the rough start they had back at the swamp and her all-business attitude, he felt he parted company on a very promising note.
Back at the Trooper station Jake had showered and changed into his spare set of his civilian clothes. A cup of coffee later and he was dictating his official statement of events upon finding Blaylock’s body in the shaft. Afterward, he and the investigator discussed the handover of the gravesite. Jake suggested she make two phone calls. One should be to the Haudenosaunee Standing Committee on Burial Rules and Regulations, which was composed of all the chiefs of the Confederacy — the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, Seneca, and Tuscarora. He did not know who the current chairman was but informed her that in the past the committee had been very successful in the repatriation of sacred items and newly discovered Indian remains. They would surely work out the bureaucratic technicalities.
The second call he recommended was to Dr. Bruce Burke at Cornell University, one of the best indigenous archeologists on Iroquois studies. He would definitely ensure proper site excavation. And since the burial site was only a half hour away from Ithaca, Burke would jump at the chance. Jake mentioned the good fortune of studying under him while attending Cornell.
Before leaving the station, the investigator allowed him to take photographs of the silver broach. She left him with her business card, but not before scribbling her personal cell phone number on the back. After stopping in the village of Waterloo for a rush dry-cleaning service on his soiled uniform, he changed into his official Army attire and was now back on the road watching a luxury sedan blow past him in the left lane.
A series of sharp ring tones from his cell phone startled his thoughts. He looked over to its dash-mounted holder, the face of the phone displaying an incoming number he recognized from MHI. He keyed his headset to answer.
“Tununda here.”
“Happy Monday Major,” said the jovial, static-filled voice of his newly appointed supervisor. It was Collections Manager Dr. Stephen Ashland. “Murphy’s Law is on tap again. Your itinerary has changed.”
“Really?” Jake replied in a bit of a nervous laugh. An itch developed along the battle scar on his left forearm. Wish he hadn’t mentioned Murphy’s Law — shit happens with the best-laid plans — thought Jake, knowing full well that eventually the big battle tank he was riding strong with his new career was sure to throw a track. “Where’s Murphy got me
going now, Doctor Ashland? My morning has already been quite fulfilling as it is.”
“I just received an urgent e-mail when I got in. We have an enormous opportunity to acquire some rare items for our collection. If they’re within our budget. And this is right up your alley too, so to speak.”
Jake speculated as to what was right up his alley, so to speak. Even though he was still getting used to working for Ashland, it was these witty little clichéd phrases like up your alley or Murphy’s Law that started annoying him. Overall though, Jake thought Ashland was impressive, at least on his resume. Obviously the director of MHI, Dr. Paul Jacobson, thought so too or Ashland wouldn’t have landed the coveted position.
Ashland was a little over forty, smart, thorough, and enthusiastic about heading up MHI’s entire collection. He too was hired on recently, about six months after Jake, so they were still feeling their way through their new working relationship. Things seemed to be going rather smoothly so far. No micromanagement. No interference. He left Jake alone to operate as an independent. But something nagged him about his new boss. There was a veneer there and he couldn’t place what it was covering up.
“Ever hear of an American Revolutionary War officer named Thomas Boyd? From the Sullivan-Clinton campaign of 1779. He was captured by the Iroquois—”
Jake finished Ashland’s sentence. “After his scouts were ambushed near the end of the offensive. Boyd was then brutally tortured to death the next day. Yep. He’s certainly a well-known historical figure. At least because of the way he died.”
Jake’s mind whirled on. The book was now open. The Sullivan-Clinton military offensive was a campaign he had studied in-depth to say the least. While earning his master degree, Jake wrote a series of articles on General George Washington’s reason to order the offensive. It was published in the Army’s top professional journal, Military Review, and generated much praise in the field.
The campaign resulted from events in 1778 in the wilderness frontier settlements of New York and Pennsylvania. Rebel families and businesses were under repeated attacks from the combined forces of British Colonel John Butler’s Rangers and Chief Joseph Brant’s Iroquois warriors. They raided and destroyed countless villages that had provided food and supplies to Washington’s fledgling army.
The brutal attacks not only saw the burning of houses, barns, mills, livestock, and crops, but also the massacre of the American settlers. No one was spared — men, women, the elderly, even infants. Torture, dismemberment, burnings at the stake, and even the enslavement of prisoners within the tribes were common forms of the heinous terror tactics the British and the Iroquois used against the rebel colonialists. Jake thought for a moment that Hezbollah and al-Qaeda probably studied Iroquois history.
Hardest hit was Cobleskill and German Flats, New York. Then came the major massacres in Cherry Valley, New York, and Wyoming, Pennsylvania. As a result of these raids, George Washington decided to mount a campaign that following spring. He would take the fight to the Iroquois homeland in what is now upstate New York.
The campaign, headed by Generals Sullivan and Clinton, was deemed a complete success in destroying over 40 villages supplying the Iroquois base of operations. It also proved to be the beginning of the end of the Confederacy — Jake’s people, so to speak. Maybe that’s why this was up my alley, he thought.
“Where are you right now?” asked Ashland. His voice became garbled.
Jake told his boss he was westbound on I-90, coming up on the Geneva exit. Ashland instructed him to stay on the Thruway, that he’d already taken the liberty to reschedule his Rochester appointment for tomorrow morning. He informed him he would instead be headed to Old Fort Niagara in Youngstown on a four o’clock appointment this afternoon.
So much for not micromanaging him, Jake thought.
“We are on an expedited request for assessment,” continued Ashland. His voice faded in static. “The executive director there contacted a handful of institutions and individuals late yesterday. She wants a value placed on the items with the intention of selling them. We landed the first slot because her late husband had served with Dr. Jacobson.”
“What am I assessing for the RFA?”
“They found Thomas Boyd’s campaign journal, his powder horn—”
“Whoa! Boyd’s journal? You’re kidding me? It was assumed lost when he was captured and killed.”
“That’s not all. They also found his knife, a belt buckle, a note pertaining to his officer’s sword, and lastly what appears to be his—” Ashland paused, then quickly added, “his scalp.”
Jake’s right eyelid twitched. His eyebrows creased and his nostrils flared. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and closed his eyes. Finally, he forced the dark battlefield memory from his mind.
Ashland continued, his voice fading again. “These items were found in a box discovered by an archaeology team from the State University of New York at Buffalo just two days ago. They had been excavating an area in the parade ground near an old barracks building and—”
“A box found underground?”
“About three feet down,” Ashland said. “You can see the exact location on the fort’s website. They have a web camera in the hole. Listen Major, this could be a huge public relations bonanza for the institute if we can acquire these items for our collection. We can tour the nation with this!”
“Tell me about it. I’m already making plans. Just the journal alone is going to be incredible. Listen, I’m starting to lose you.”
“I’m going into a meeting with Dr. Jacobson to see how far we can stretch our acquisitions budget. I’ll let you know. The discovery is still being kept confidential at this point. It hasn’t been broken to the media. There’s a gag order in place at Old Fort Niagara. I’ll shoot you a copy of the e-mail, there’s more specifics in there.”
“Wait, I’ve got a question,” said Jake. “Why does Fort Niagara want to sell? I know they have a really nice museum there. Why wouldn’t they keep this for their own collection?”
In a barely discernible response, Ashland explained how the fort was in a severe financial bind due to their former director embezzling most of their operating funds. “They either have to sell to raise money or face closure.”
“Face closure?”
“Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll send you that e-mail. Drive safe and I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay. Goodbye,” Jake terminated the connection and gunned his SUV’s engine. “Looks like my tank is still on track. Sorry Murphy.”
6
Approaching Old Fort Niagara.
HAVING BEEN LISTENING to jazz music for most of the ride west to Old Fort Niagara, Jake switched to news talk radio. He soon became irritated at a local college professor’s ramblings on how effective the United Nations had performed in the last decade. Jake knew from first-hand experience how impotent, bloated, and corrupt that organization had become, and if it only had a backbone to all of its rhetoric then maybe a lot of bloodshed would have been avoided. Instead of getting himself all worked up he simply changed the station, catching the tail end of a newsbreak segment.
“…and finally an odd story out of the Finger Lakes that is once again spurring rumors of a subterranean waterway connecting Seneca and Cayuga Lakes. Apparently, a dead lake trout was discovered in Cayuga Lake bearing the tag of Geneva’s Hobart and William Smith Colleges biology department. The fish was found by a man walking his dog near Sheldrake Point. He immediately informed college officials who took possession of the fish. According to HWS spokesman Mitch Sanford, this particular specimen, along with fifty others, was tagged and released two days ago in Seneca Lake as part of a student research project on board the school’s aquatic research vessel. Sanford claims the rumor of a direct underground river connection between the two lakes was an absurd scientific impossibility based on geological fallacy and persistent pranks. He said the college would be conducting toxicology tests and a dissection of the fish to determine its cause of death.”
Uncle Joe had always been full of old-time Indian legends, some of which were hardly believable. Most of his tall tales revolved around Seneca Lake and the heartland of the Iroquois empire. One was the famous story of the Seneca Drums, as they were called. His uncle described them as low distant rumbling sounds of the ancestors’ evil spirits. He said many of the locals along the lake claimed to have heard them over the years — referring to them as cannon blasts of a distant naval battle. Later, as a Cornell student, Jake read an article that attempted to explain this booming sound in more scientific terms. It noted that the sound came from natural gas escaping from fissures deep on the bottom of the lake, bubbling up, and hitting the surface with thunderous burps. Upon hearing of the academic explanation Jake’s uncle merely had a hearty laugh.
But the most colorful legend of all that Jake had never forgotten was that of the spirit boatman paddling the southern end of the lake on moonlit nights. This boatman was a fallen Seneca warrior who sacrificed himself to a vanguard of General Sullivan’s Continental troops so others in his war party could escape. While he fought off the Americans, his fellow warriors climbed down sheer cliffs to waiting canoes. Located near Hector on the south end of Seneca Lake, these beetling cliffs were later painted with strange symbols to commemorate the bravery of that great warrior. The cliffs were afterward named the Painted Rocks. Jake and his uncle had even boated by the symbols while fishing. The tale certainly churned imaginary thoughts of a distant skirmish in a young boy’s mind. It was the seed of a scene that had spurred Jake on to seek more knowledge in his later years.