Within minutes, a Dansville police cruiser with flashing lights came whipping around the corner and skidded to a stop in the parking lot. A cop jumped out and looked around. Rae waved to him from the second floor walkway. The cop double-stepped it up the stairs. Next came a Livingston County sheriff deputy. He also parked in haste and ran up to the room. Twenty seconds later a volunteer ambulance rig followed by a Dansville Fire and Rescue truck arrived. Shortly after the floodgates of volunteer emergency personnel opened up.
Making sure no one was watching, Jake fingered the three papers inside his coat to make sure they were really there. All was well. He sighed with a mixture of relief and disappointment at his actions.
He realized, when this murder scene wrapped up, he needed to contact Uncle Joe and Lizzie to tell them he had now accepted their mission. But first he needed to check in with someone else. He reached for his cell phone in the briefcase at his feet. He needed to call MHI.
Dialing the director, he shook his head and tried to figure out how this whole affair had unfolded. Was it because he tried doing the right thing in rescuing some guy trapped in a hole — who just happened to have stolen a secret broach. Or was it because some jackass named Nero happened to think he was a long lost all-powerful shaman. Or was it really all because Thomas Boyd’s greed led him to an Indian cave in 1779. Coincidence? Not if you ask Miss Lizzie Spiritwalker.
The phone rang several times. A groggy male voice answered. Jacobson.
“Sir? It’s Jake.”
“How’d you make out?”
“Stephen Ashland has been murdered.”
17
Early Wednesday morning. High Point Casino.
RAY KANTIIO’S ARRIVAL at the High Point mountain resort saw him greeted outside in the employee’s private parking lot by Kenny Rousseau, the head of Nero’s personal Neo-Iroquois bodyguards. Rousseau was dressed in a dark blue suit and wore his black hair as Kantiio did — in a long braid. He had dark eyes with three light blue streaks of tattooed ink under each — face tattoos as in the ancient Iroquois warrior tradition. The brute was intimidating and rightly so, yet he acted in a quiet professional manner, stone-faced about his business. Concealed inside of his coat Kantiio knew Rousseau sported a Browning 9 mm Hi-Power semi-automatic pistol that could appear at any second. The head bodyguard also wore a nondescript earpiece for secure communications.
“You’re on time lard ass. That’s a first,” announced Rousseau.
“Up yours numb nuts,” replied Kantiio, chuckling.
Rousseau smiled. “Park over there.” He motioned toward the employee entrance.
Kantiio would be headed in to see Nero himself to present what he assumed would be the latest addition to his artifact collection — the antique rifle. But he also brought something special too, a new gift for his boss’s private scalp room. After parking his Navigator among other luxury SUVs, and wrapping the McTavish’s rifle in a blanket, he followed Rousseau into a side employee entrance leading into the main kitchen area.
Another bodyguard, dressed as Rousseau was, appeared in front of them and with Rousseau trailing behind they briskly moved Kantiio passed the chefs and prep cooks preparing for breakfast at the five-star restaurant. Pushing through double-swinging kitchen doors, they silently strolled down a service hallway decorated in Native American art. They bypassed the entrance to the main dining area and continued ahead. Several administrative staff offices with closed doors lined each side of the hallway. The end office door, next to Nero’s private elevator, was ajar. As they passed, Kantiio glanced in and saw the cute blonde-haired white woman Stanton at her desk. He stopped. She looked up and made eye contact with him. She seemed sad, but gave a weak smile in return. He flashed his gold teeth.
The door closed in his face. Rousseau had reached over and slammed it shut. The occupant’s nameplate stared back at him. It read: Anne Stanton, Director of the Haudenosaunee Collection.
“Mouth, she’s not your type,” said the head of security.
“Bite me Rousseau. At least I’m getting some!”
“I hear you fall asleep before you can even get it up,” countered Rousseau. “Now keep moving. You don’t want to be late.”
Rousseau, an ex-convict, had been caught with Alex Nero in their youth running weapons across the St. Lawrence River. He had been Nero’s enforcer during prison and actually recruited Kantiio into their prison gang. After their release and Nero’s subsequent rise to power he was rewarded as the head of Nero’s security team at High Point. Middle-aged, Rousseau stood at the same six-foot height as Kantiio. Physically, the two looked like replicas of each other — both sporting wide necks and faces — in the mold of a professional football lineman, although Rousseau definitely had kept in much better physical shape.
They proceeded over to the elevator, its mirrored outer doors shimmering in faux-gold. The lead bodyguard, a Mr. Jasper who was fairly new at the company, turned and faced Kantiio.
“You know the routine,” said the younger bodyguard.
They would pat him down. Kantiio had been through the drill many times before. As an independent contractor doing Nero’s off site dirty work, he often checked in with the boss and was always escorted down to his subterranean office. He handed the blanket-wrapped rifle to Rousseau, produced his Beretta 92 silenced pistol, and gave it to the other bodyguard, butt end first.
“Nice piece,” said Mr. Jasper, pocketing the pistol. “This new?”
“Yeah, picked it up last month down in the city,” said the contractor, knowing he’d receive it back once he left.
Kantiio then held out his arms. Rousseau frisked him up and down. On Kantiio’s side coat pocket he felt a lump inside and heard a crinkle of plastic. He pulled out a oversized freezer storage bag with what appeared to be a wig. Upon closer inspection he noticed it was a person’s scalp. Rousseau placed the bag back inside Kantiio’s pocket and looked up at him with raised eyebrows.
Kantiio’s teeth flashed. “A special gift for the Man himself.”
Rousseau merely shook his head. “Whatever gets you off.” He then checked inside the contractor’s white button-down shirt for any electronic recording devices. Kantiio was clean, as always. He handed back the artifact rifle and opened the elevator, allowing the trio to step inside. Rousseau produced a key out of his pocket, inserted it into a slot below the floor numbers then hit the button labeled HC for Haudenosaunee Collection. The elevator lurched downward for a three-story ride into the depths of the mountain.
Upon reaching bottom, Rousseau led his guest into a foyer area furnished with a series of Iroquois paintings hung on solid rock walls. Straight ahead sat the main entrance to Nero’s famous collection, the façade resembling an Iroquois longhouse. Reconstructed against the stone wall Nero had real logs brought in and secured with genuine corn fiber rope. Several decorative Indian furs adorned the walls adding to the visual authenticity. The log-faceted, reinforced doorway, locked tight as usual, was even flanked by two full-sized bronze Indian statues depicting warriors at the height of the empire.
The three men walked toward the collection’s entrance but then turned to their right at a solid oak door displaying a hideous false-face mask. Rousseau knocked twice. An electronic lock sprung and he led the guest in. Mr. Jasper followed, closing the door behind them.
Kantiio looked across the room to an oversized mahogany desk and found his benefactor.
Alex Nero sat hidden behind the desk in a high back leather chair, his back to his guest. Cigar smoke hovered above the chair, trailing into the crack of a partially opened wooden door just to his side. A hoop-shaped branch with a stretched scalp and long brown hair was the decoration of the day on that door. It marked the entrance to Nero’s prized Scalp Room, his inner sanctum where high-level security meetings took place. Nero stood up from his chair, his back still to Kantiio, and grabbed a small book off his desktop. He walked through the side door.
Rousseau escorted Kantiio through the same inner entrance. Again,
it was locked behind them by the expressionless Mr. Jasper. Standard procedure, thought Kantiio.
Rousseau proceeded ahead into the narrow rock chamber as Kantiio’s eyes widened at the sinister collection of victim’s scalps hanging on every wall. He was astonished every time he entered the room.
At the far end, Rousseau halted and stepped aside. In front of them was a stone table. On the opposite side of the table, against the back wall of the chamber, sat Nero. Dressed in a stylish contemporary tuxedo, he sat in an elevated high-back wooden chair reading a small leather back book. Kantiio always referred to his chair as the King’s chair. A cigar hung out of Nero’s mouth, blue-gray smoke floated around his head, blending in with his stone gray colored hair. Bloodshot eyes, from a night of tending to his casino guests, peered out from behind the swirling smoke. He gave Kantiio a grunt and a nod.
His contractor nodded back.
“Please show me the rifle, Ray.”
“Certainly,” said Kantiio, unwrapping the blanket and exposing McTavish’s Ferguson rifle. He laid it gingerly on the table. “The poor bastard who stole this got nasty with me once I got him back up to his room. I think he knew it was coming. Put up a weak fight.” He chuckled as he reached into his coat pocket to extract the plastic freezer bag. He turned the bag upside down and let Ashland’s bloody scalp fall onto the table.
It hit with a slap.
“Another gift for your collection.”
Nero rose from his chair. “Ah, such an unforeseen event.” He walked up to the table, placed his cigar on the edge, and fingered the scalp so that it lay flat, hair side up. He then stroked Ashland’s blond hair several times. “A nice addition indeed. Many thanks.” He winked at his contractor.
Kantiio smiled, his front gold teeth reflecting in the warm light.
“Mr. Rousseau, please prepare this for display,” ordered Nero.
Rousseau walked up, opened the bag, and placed the scalp back inside. He handed it to Mr. Jasper who walked it to a side table and stored it in a drawer for later preparation.
“Ah, the famous Sean McTavish rifle,” uttered Nero as he picked up the Revolutionary War relic. “Tell me,” he continued, as he examined the piece. “How does this rifle end up in Dansville, New York stolen by another thief?”
The gold-toothed contractor shifted his weight and in a rather defensive tone said. “Listen, I was prepared to go into that library and take the rifle myself. I would have taken care of the librarian too. No witnesses. I was waiting right before the library closed to pull the job. But this moron walks up when I was casing it and I knew he was up to something. I have no idea who he was. When he came out, the rifle was sticking out of his trench coat, so I figured he took the piece I was after. I mean most libraries don’t have two Revolutionary War muskets now do they?” He chuckled nervously. Nero remained silent.
“Anyways, the dude was a total amateur,” Kantiio rambled. “The piece barely fit into his little red sports car. I tailed him from there. He never knew I was onto him. If I didn’t make the judgment call to follow him the job would have been compromised for sure. He would have disappeared with it. So, you have to give me credit there.”
“I see. Your judgment. Interesting,” Nero commented, frowning as he turned the rifle upside down to closely inspect the scuffed wooden stock.
“Yes sir. Listen, he was tipped off. It’s obvious.”
Nero’s eyes found a small symbol on the bottom of the stock. Without looking at Kantiio he asked if the thief had in any way touched or removed any item from the rifle. He was assured he had not. Kantiio said he followed his orders not to tamper with anything either.
“Once I confronted this loser at the motel and got the rifle from his car, I stuck it in my Navigator. Then I walked him back up to his room and finished the job. He never brought that piece up there.”
“Never took it out of his car?” asked Nero. “Did he make any long stops on his ride up to New York? Fill up for gas? Take a piss? Pull over to rest? Was he ever out of your sight?”
“Ah, yeah he was,” said the contractor. “Just for a moment though. He pulled over once and I had to drive past him. I waited way up ahead so he wouldn’t notice me. I thought he made me at that point but he took off after that and I kept up the tail. He made a gas station stop a little later then drove non-stop to Dansville and checked into his room. The rifle never left his car.”
“Mr. Rousseau, your knife if you will,” ordered Nero.
Kantiio flinched. “Listen boss, I didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I got the piece for you. I did the job.” He stepped away as Rousseau unleashed a folding lock blade knife from his pocket and walked towards the table.
Nero extended his hand. “Did I say you did anything wrong? Yet?” Rousseau placed the blade, handle first, into his boss’s palm. Nero laid the rifle on the table and flipped it over. He ordered Kantiio and Rousseau to each hold one end while he pried at what looked like a tiny round plug the size of a dime.
Kantiio leaned forward for a closer inspection. “Hey, I know that symbol,” he said. “It’s the Rotary Club.”
“No, you idiot,” mumbled Nero without looking up. “It’s the symbol of the oldest and largest fraternity in the world, the Freemasons. The square, the compasses, and the letter G for Geometry.”
The plug popped out rather too easily, rattling on the table. Kantiio caught it before it rolled off. Nero bent closer and looked into the narrow hole it had concealed.
Empty.
He blinked. He looked up into his contractor’s eyes. But before he took action his cell phone rang. He snatched it out of his tuxedo’s inner breast pocket.
“What!”
“Sir, I have some new information on that murder in Dansville you wanted me to check out,” stated his collection’s director, Anne Stanton.
“Go on.”
“They released the victim’s name. It’s Doctor Stephen Ashland of the Army’s Military History Institute. Same place that Cranberry Marsh rescuer guy was from. You think there’s a link?”
Nero’s eyes fixed on Kantiio. They pulsated. The large contractor looked down. “Not sure. Continue.” Nero then reached for his cigar, placed it at his lips and drew in a deep breath of sweet smoke. It calmed him ever so slightly. He replaced the cigar back on the edge of the table, a thin line of smoke tapering upward in a haze.
“The report said the victim was shot once in the back of the head execution style, in his motel room. The suspect was described as a Native American male, large frame. Driving a dark colored SUV.”
“Hmmmm.” Nero groaned in fury and bit his lower lip. A drop of blood seeped into his mouth.
“One more thing,” continued Stanton. “There are some confusing reports about additional shots fired too — outside of the room. I’m sure they’ll release more information later this morning so I’ll keep my ears open, okay?”
Nero tuned her out.
“Mr. Nero?” asked the director. “Are you there?”
Nero had heard enough. He pressed what he thought was the End button on his cell phone to disconnect the call. He slid the cell phone face up on the table next to his cigar and faced Ray Kantiio.
Stanton heard a click, thinking Nero hung up on her. She almost asked again if he was there, but then heard a loud slap and a man grunt. Then the shouting began.
18
Same time. Strathallan Hotel, downtown Rochester.
AFTER RAE WAS ordered to the local hospital as a precaution, Jake caught a ride back up to Rochester with a state trooper. He then checked into the closest available hotel at four in the morning — the ritzy Strathallan on East Avenue. He was mentally spent. Collapsing in his new hotel room bed, he could not purge the image of Ashland’s scalped head out of his mind. Combined with what he had learned of the mind controlling power behind the Crown of Serpents, he knew what memories the scalping would trigger and had fought to keep that dark scene suppressed. But as he lay staring at the ceiling the exhaustion slowly opened the do
ors of a incident he did not want to relive.
The year was 2001 while deployed under Operation Enduring Freedom in Central Asia. As a young 10th Mountain company commander Jake faced his first combat test in an enemy prisoner revolt at the Qala-i Jangi fortress ten miles west of their Army base in Mazar-i-Sharif in Northern Afghanistan. Eight hundred captured Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters had overpowered their Northern Alliance guards, tortured and killed a CIA operative, and stormed the fort armory seizing weapons. A dozen U.S. and British Special Forces and later an eight-man Quick Reaction Force from Jake’s 10th Mountain unit were called in to reinforce the Northern Alliance counterattack. They fought a three-day battle against the prisoners by coordinating air strikes, tank fire, and infantry assaults.
He keenly remembered the adrenaline rush during the battle. It was his first thrilling taste of combat and he reveled in it. He blinked hard as he stared at the hotel room ceiling. He seemed to be floating in his bed, the vivid images playing a movie in his mind.
Just before Jake’s column of armored Humvees attacked a Taliban position inside the fort, a stray U.S. Air Force bomb missed its mark and landed almost on top of the U.S. spotters who had called it in. Six Northern Alliance soldiers were killed instantly. Dozens more, including five Special Forces soldiers, were injured. Jake changed the order from an assault to a rescue operation. Leading the way, his Humvee column raced in under heavy enemy fire and evacuated the wounded troops. Jake personally stood in his command Humvee’s turret and provided a devastating rain of .50 caliber covering fire. He took down ten enemy combatants himself and was the last vehicle out of the compound. It was a personal high point in the battle.
But the low point, the moment when he lost all self-control, came a day later. With over seven hundred of the prisoners already dead and the enemy reduced to just a handful of hard-nosed Taliban and al-Qaeda hold-outs, Jake found himself spearheading an assault team down into the underground cells of the fortress. Separated from his men after several booby-trapped grenade detonations had collapsed a wall, he was literally blown into the laps of three enemy combatants. They immediately engaged in close quarters hand-to-hand combat. He knocked the first fighter out cold with the butt of his rifle. The second shot at and missed him. Jake returned fire and killed him. The third attacked with a knife. After wrestling the knife away in several quick moves he killed the man with a thrust through his heart.
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