by K. L. Nelson
The
Stone
of
Secrets
K.L. Nelson
© May 10, 2017
TXu 2-054-967
2nd Edition, Revised 6/9/18
Acknowledgements
I would like to warmly thank the many friends who generously provided feedback in writing this book. Many hours were spent proofreading for both the inevitable errors as well as improvements in style. I appreciate it more than I can say. Of particular note is the help of my wonderful family. My daughter Kelsie was always there to encourage me, whether it was feedback on how to say it better, or a smiling “I like it.” Kimberly contributed her mad makeup skills to the cover art, and Justin donated precious hours in between work, school and his feeble social life to do the photography. And most of all, I would like to thank my wonderful wife Tamara for providing not only the original story idea, but the inspiration and motivation to embark on this journey. Though I often fall short of deserving it, she has never lost faith in me. Every man should have their own Skye McAlister. I am very lucky to have mine!
Grave wonder it is what secret so deep this ancient land obscures,
Imagination cannot reveal what lies beneath the earth we walk,
Whispering, screaming, and bidding us look;
Uncommon is our human race,
And rare is the knowledge of its ancient tale,
Interred, silenced with the passing of generations,
Left in stone to tell the story;
Motionless, enduring, bidding us look...
Prologue
Zip ties chafed Skye McAlister’s wrists as the man pushed her mercilessly through the dark wood. Her heart raced as he forced her into a run. Branches whipped them as they barreled between the trees. Up the hill they ran until Skye could no longer run. She fell to the ground and rolled, unable to control her movement with her hands strapped together in front of her. The man stopped her with his foot.
Skye heard him speak into his radio. In den Bäumen drei Kilometer südlich des Treffpunkts...
He was giving their location in German. But to whom was he speaking? Then her heart sank as she heard the drumming sound in the distance, the beating rotor blades of a helicopter. Whatever else happens, if I get on the helicopter I am dead.
Dein Plan wird nicht funktionieren. Du wirst gefangen genommen werden!
The man responded with a blow across her face. Schweigen!
Hit a tied up woman when she’s down. This guy is a class act. Well, this isn’t working. It’s time for a new plan.
The man hoisted her to her feet, and she cried out in pain and fell back to the ground. She might be able to buy some time by feigning a twisted ankle. She held her foot and rocked on the ground. Mein Knöchel!
The man cursed and threw Skye over his shoulder. But he stopped suddenly and watched through the trees. Skye could see flashing lights past the edge of the trees. The vehicles sped around the thicket on both sides and met at the top of the hill.
Deine Freunde werden dich umbringen. Your friends are going to get you killed.
The man spoke English.
He put Skye down and ejected the clip of his gun to count rounds. Then he radioed the helicopter: Holen Sie uns am Fuße des Hügels ab.
“I can’t walk. I think my ankle is broken.”
“Get up. You’re fine.”
“No, I really think it’s broken. That fall…”
“Then hop on your other foot. I’m not carrying you.”
“Okay but I’ll need help. It’s starting to swell.”
“You will move on your own and you will do it quickly. Otherwise I will put a bullet in your head.”
“No you won’t.”
The man pulled the hammer back on his gun and pressed the barrel to Skye’s temple. “You don’t know what I am capable of. I would take great pleasure in putting a bullet in your head.”
“Um…that’s not exactly what I meant. I know you’re capable of putting a bullet in my head. What I said was, you won’t put a bullet in my head. At least not right now.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Okay look, your scare tactics are working on me. I am really scared right now, so good job. But I’m not scared of you putting a bullet in my head, here in this forest.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, if you were going to kill me you would have done it by now. You could have done it back at the house. You’ve had ample opportunity to kill me several times over.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t…”
“True. But you can’t. Your boss has spent a tremendous amount of money tonight. You’ve worked up this amazing ruse, outsmarted the authorities, and kidnapped me when their backs were turned. Now you’ve got aircraft flying in. How much did all this cost? I’ll bet it’s more than the price of a bullet. And did you lose anyone tonight? Good thugs are hard to come by. What’s that worth?”
“So?”
“So why spend all that money and effort just to keep my alive when a single bullet would have solved everything? Because it wouldn’t solve anything…”
“Really…”
“The fact is I know why you need me alive. There’s a lot at stake here, isn’t there? What would happen if you got me out here with the helicopter minutes away, only to blow it all by killing me? How would you like to have to tell your boss that story when you got back home? What would he do to you?”
That was it. The man’s face went stone cold. He was scared.
Skye watched him carefully, wondering if she’d overdone it. Her heart pounded as he fingered the trigger of his gun.
Then he looked up. “I’m not going to kill you,” he said, “but I may just maim you really nice if you keep talking. Now get up and start walking.”
She struggled to her feet, still pretending her ankle was twisted. They started back down the hill, and Skye grabbed his arm without asking. He relented and let her put some weight on him as they went. She hobbled along and readjusted her grip on him, eyeing the gun. If she could get it from him, this would all be over. But he was much stronger than her. If it came down to a struggle, she would lose. The helicopter drew nearer.
“Actually, you’re not going to maim me either…”
“Shut up and keep moving.”
“I am. I’m just saying a minute ago you made it very clear you were not going to carry me…”
“Shut up.”
“…which is perfectly understandable because that would slow us down considerably.”
“Shut up.”
“Maiming me in any fashion would certainly cause a major delay by crippling my ability to move, would it not?”
“I’m maiming you after we are in the helicopter. Now for the last time, shut up!”
Skye made her move on a perfectly good ankle. She grabbed the gun and twisted it around, breaking his finger. He cried out in pain. They fell down grasping for the gun, and started tumbling down the hill. Skye made a desperate grab and gained a grip on it, but the man landed all his weight on her in the tumble and knocked the wind out of her. They slammed against a tree, stopping their descent. When the man gained control, the gun was within his reach. He picked it up with his good hand and pointed it at Skye. She had failed.
They stared intently at each other. Skye thought this might be the end. He was just mad enough to do it. His face was distorted from the pain of his broken finger, and his patience was gone. He aimed the gun at her and bit his lip. Skye closed her eyes and waited for the end.
He didn’t do it.
He slowly rose to his feet. After an excruciating pause, he spoke softly but firmly, “After you.”
Skye got up and started down the hill in front of the man.
What is keeping those agents?
Chapter One
Skye McAlister, age 4, noticed the cold stare of 10-year-old Wendell Jones from across the stage. She guessed Wendell had prepared all his life for this moment. He probably didn’t intend to let a preschooler steal it from him.
But she was much too excited to dwell on Wendell’s plight. It was the first time she’d ever been in front of so many people all looking at her. She wondered what attracted so much attention to kids spelling words into a microphone. The auditorium was filled to capacity. There were reporters and cameras. She’d never seen anything like it.
Her parents knew they had a prodigy on their hands when the tiny girl started having conversations with them at 10 months. When she read her first book at two, Brian and Judith started seeking professional advice. The psychologist said that if a normal child’s mind processes information like a paper shredder, Skye’s mind was more like a wood chipper. You wouldn’t toss bits of paper into a wood chipper, or worse yet let it run day after day without throwing anything at all into it. Steadily they put more advanced books in front of her, never forcing her but merely letting her explore the pages. Soon they were tossing trees into her chipper. Her intelligence was phenomenal. At age three, she was reading at an adult level. Having mastered English, she began to learn other languages. By the time the spelling bee rolled around, she was reading college texts. It seemed unnatural.
The spelling bee administrator had many reasons why she was not even supposed to be on the stage the day of the spelling bee. But they all boiled down to the fact that she was just too little. How could it be fair to the other contestants? To her? It never would have happened had Brian not held an influential position on the board. But no amount of influence could prevent the controversy that resulted. If anything, Brian’s influence fueled the controversy. Many in the province thought their own child might be intelligent enough to be admitted as well. Why could they not enter their child when Brian McAlister could? The flood of unqualified applicants gave the administrator a headache. Brian grimaced at the stack of applications in the reject pile. It was a political quagmire.
But when the day of the spelling bee arrived, every single person in the audience was only interested in one thing: being there in person to witness history being made. No child had ever won the bee at such a young age. Little Skye had already achieved local fame for her unusual intellect. The townspeople who knew Skye were sure she could win. If she did, it would draw worldwide attention to the sleepy Australian town. The opportunity was not lost on members of the city council. They were already making tee shirts.
Wendell took his final turn at the microphone. He had fought well throughout the competition, but at last onomatopoeia brought his perfect run to an end. He left out the i. He slapped his hand to his knee and issued a silent curse when the official informed him that his attempt was incorrect. But it wasn’t over yet. Skye still had to spell her word correctly to win. Wendell took his seat. He and everyone else in the room held their breath as the official called the tiny girl to the stage.
Skye carried her stool up to the microphone and climbed up. The cameras rolled to capture the moment for the world.
“Ursprache,” the official said, “a hypothetically reconstructed…”
“I know what it is,” the child interrupted matter-of-factly. “It’s a hypothetically reconstructed parent language such as Proto-Germanic, the ancestor of the Germanic languages. U,R,S,P,R,A,C,H,E.”
One could have heard a pin drop as all eyes turned to the official. The man checked and then double checked the word. Slowly he leaned forward to his microphone.
“That is correct.”
The entire auditorium erupted in a roar. Their hometown girl had done it! The crowd rushed the stage as Judith lifted her little daughter off her feet.
Skye didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. Her amazing little mind was still only four after all. She was only beginning to realize that not every four year old knew what ursprache was and how to spell it.
She had suspected she was different when the other kids in her play group didn’t know what she was talking about most of the time. It was fun to play with them, but why the blank stares? Did they not understand the principles of loading that enabled the little colored wooden blocks to join together and span the entire room? Excitedly she explained how they could in fact use gravity to work for them instead of against them. It was just a matter of how they joined the blocks together. But it was no use. The other kids just went back to putting one block on top of the other. How could they build bridges across canyons when they got older if they didn’t already know this stuff?
Though she didn’t understand why everyone at the spelling bee was so excited, she was glad they were. But one man didn’t seem quite as elated as the others. Looking over her mother’s shoulder, she saw him just watching her.
“Mommy, who’s that man over there,” she asked. But when Judith turned around there was just a sea of faces. The man was gone.
“Which man?” Judith asked.
“The one who isn’t happy,” Skye replied.
Judith and Brian looked at each other knowingly. But it was only a brief glance before they returned to the elation of the moment. Skye was perceptive enough, even at four, to know that her parents both knew the man by the way they looked at each other. At least they knew something about him. But Skye was also patient enough to know that adults only talk about things at the right time. And now was not that time. She cataloged this man in the back of her mind, in the place where she kept things to research when the time was right.
The rest of the evening was a blur. It seemed everyone in the town wanted to talk to this child who beat all the odds. There were interviews with important people. And there were interviews with some who only thought they were important. And Skye knew the difference. She was respectful to both kinds, but Skye didn’t trust those with a high opinion of themselves. She was truthful with everyone, the way most children are. But Skye had a natural ability to deal with the haughty in a special way.
“Hello Skye. My name is Charles Biggar. I’m from the big newspaper in Sydney,” a haughty man said. “Can I ask you some questions?”
“Yes. The Tribune, isn’t it Mr. Biggar? You wrote the exposé on the fashion industry markups. You singlehandedly wiped out an entire sector of the city’s economy with that piece, didn’t you? I think unemployment will take decades to return to prerecession figures.”
The reporter adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. No one had ever been quite so pointed with him about the issue, though everyone knew it was true. He glanced up at the girl’s father. Brian folded his arms and grinned. “Well go on, Mr. Biggar,” he said. “You had some questions?”
“Yes. Um, yes… I mean, wow! You’ve had an amazing day today, haven’t you young lady? Let’s talk about your studies. When exactly did you learn about that word, ur…ursp…?”
“Ursprache,” Skye assisted. “Well, I was reading about the Phoenicians of the ancient world. You see, some have postulated their culture and language had a much more far-reaching influence than we thought. Linguists have found evidence the Phoenicians sailed all over the ancient world, not just the Mediterranean. But I’m afraid until the geneticists and archaeologists catch up to their work, we will never know.”
Charles Biggar’s eyebrows rose up as Skye spoke. “I see. And…uh…when did you find yourself becoming interested in the subject?”
After thinking for a moment she looked up and replied, “When I first read about it of course. Do you not find it fascinating that everything we think we know about the Phoenicians may be wrong?”
“I reckon,” the reporter replied. “I guess I never thought…”
“I would hope a man in your position would. Do you not take it upon yourself to mold public opinion? Surely you must have an extensive literary background to arrogate such a lofty responsibility. What kinds of things interest you, Mr. Biggar?”
Charles Biggar did not like becoming the interviewee, but the question deserved an answer. And he didn’t mind talking about himself.
“I enjoy thinking about social issues, the important things facing society today,” he proudly replied.
“Where do you get your information on these issues?” the child asked.
“I read articles written by my colleagues,” the reporter replied, growing somewhat irritated at having to answer to a four year old.
“And where do your colleagues get their information?”
“I don’t know,” Charles Biggar replied. “They probably read articles too.”
“If all the journalists are just reading each other’s articles, how do you know you have accurate information?”
Brian McAlister’s smile was growing as he watched the exchange.
“Young lady,” Charles Biggar replied self-importantly, “some of my colleagues have received awards for their writing. Their opinions are widely respected.”
Skye looked at the floor for a moment. Then she looked straight into the face of the reporter. “Mr. Biggar,” she said seriously, “it seems to me reporters are more interested in impressing each other than finding the truth.”
The interview went on like this for some time. The child’s father was quite entertained with how young Skye kept the reporter on his toes with her intelligence and wit. Clearly he was not used to anyone putting him in his place, much less a child. But that is exactly what Skye did to Charles Biggar.
As the day came to a close, Skye found herself in a quiet moment with her father.
“It was a fun day, wasn’t it Skye?” he asked.
“Yes, it was delightful Daddy,” the girl replied.
Brian smiled the way he often did when talking to his little girl. “You know what I like about you Skye? You say things like ‘it was delightful’. Other daddies have to be content with childish babbling, but not me. I’m very lucky to have you.”
“You’re silly,” the child replied. The two had a giggle together. Then Brian drew a breath and grew serious.