Keeper of the Black Stones

by P. T. McHugh

  “You noticed an awful lot about guys firing guns and rocket launchers at you,” Paul answered. “Anything else?” I could see him getting interested, filing the info away for future use.

  “That wasn’t a rocket launcher. It was a grenade launcher. Big difference.” Reis paused, thinking. “The whole thing felt off. They didn’t feel legit to me. When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you learn to trust those gut feelings. And Fleming hired me for a reason.”

  I sat back, thinking. “But why were they after us? What on earth do we have that they want?”

  Reis grunted. “They might not have been after us at all.”

  “Doc?” I asked.

  “Or the stone. If what you say is true…” He shook his head as he tried to connect the dots. “Then there’s no telling who’s looking for it, or what they’d do to get it.”

  After a moment of silence, Paul spoke again. “Is Reis Slayton your real name?”

  Reis threw Paul a quick a glance. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well you have all this crazy experience. You say you’re in ‘the business.’ And you have to admit that the name sounds … well, made up, really.”

  I groaned. Here we were, our lives in danger, fighting against people who were evidently bent on changing the course of history, about to confront the man who could tell us what we needed to know, and Paul was wondering whether Reis used a code name.

  “Paul, really?” I asked. “You think now’s the time for this sort of nonsense?”

  Reis ignored me. “Made up?”

  “Like Race Banon in Johnny Quest, or Tony Stark or James Bond. You know, the super-cool guy name.”

  Reis snorted, and a corner of his mouth turned up. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was the start of a smile. It would have been one of the first I’d seen from him. “The next time I visit my parents, I’ll get a copy of my birth certificate. Will that satisfy you?”

  Paul held his hands up in mock surrender. “Not necessary, captain, I was just curious. Now if you told me your name was something like Jake Stone-fist or Rock Steelhead, I’d really have a hard time believing you.”

  A bark of surprised laughter escaped Reis’ mouth and Paul smiled, proud of himself. Before he could answer, though, we got off the interstate and turned onto Route 4, and then onto a private road just outside of Woodstock.

  Paul whistled quietly. “The swankiest neighborhood in two states,” he remarked. “Not too shabby.”

  We drove slowly down the private road, through a tunnel of old trees. I looked around anxiously, but could see only dense vegetation, marked periodically with signs warning that trespassers were unwelcome. No clues about what–or who–was to come. After a few moments of driving through the hushed forest, we drifted to a stop in front of a large wrought iron gate, bordered by 10-foot brick walls. Reis rolled his window down and leaned out the window toward a speaker in the wall.

  “Reis Slayton to see Mr. Fleming,” he called casually.

  Paul elbowed me in the ribs as the gate opened, and I nodded wordlessly. John Fleming was loaded. The entrance was bigger than anything I’d ever seen, and this was just the driveway. This man had more money and power than anyone I knew, and I was about to go into his house making demands. My stomach clenched with nerves, and I sucked in a deep gulp of air as we drove through the gate. The view was incredible; we could see the White Mountains of New Hampshire to our left and the Green Mountains of Vermont to our right. As we crested the hill, the oak and pine trees in front of us disappeared to reveal the estate. The scene before me did little to settle my nerves.

  “Holy smokes,” Paul murmured. “I knew there was old money in Woodstock, but that’s really something. Who is this guy, anyhow?”

  Paul was right. John Fleming’s home made the White House look pedestrian. The house had been built in the colonial style–or age–with a portico in the front and a massive porch along the second floor, looking out onto the private drive. The driveway alone was bigger than our entire house. The whole thing was painted white, with lemon yellow shutters and trim, and flowerbeds and green lawns covered the grounds around the house. Two separate buildings stood behind the main home; I assumed that these were a fancy guesthouse and an equally impressive barn. My eyes moved on to the land behind the house, where white fences ran for miles, surrounding pastures full of horses. This was a full-blown horse ranch, complete with a mansion, circular drive, and creepy guesthouse. The main house probably had secret rooms, hidden stairwells, and a dungeon underneath. Maybe even a ghost or two.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath, and let it out. Who the hell was this John Fleming, and how had Doc met him? Doc didn’t belong in this world; the house was about one hundred times bigger than ours, and I couldn’t imagine Doc ever being interested in horses or bushes shaped like animals. What did John Fleming have to do with my grandfather? And would he know anything about his disappearance this morning?

  Reis must have been wondering the same thing, because he revved the engine and shot down the hill to the driveway. He pulled quickly into the circular drive, where a man I could only assume to be the butler met us.

  “This way gentlemen. Mr. Fleming will take you in the study.” The man was larger than a butler had a right to be, and had a creepy foreign accent. I stepped carefully past him, and followed Reis up to the front door.

  The foyer of the home was even more impressive than the exterior had been. Two large semi-circular staircases rose from the right and left to meet one another in a wide landing on the second floor. The paneling on the walls was done in dark, glossy mahogany, and a crystal chandelier hung golden and sparkling from a domed ceiling at least four stories above us. Old paintings, maps, and tapestries covered the walls, which ended in a black and white marble floor. My eyes jumped from one spot to another, desperately trying to take everything in.

  Drawing my eyes back down to ground level, I noticed Reis and the butler moving through the foyer to a set of French doors on the left. I shoved Paul, who was staring up at the ceiling, and scuttled after them.

  The butler opened the doors grandly and moved aside, motioning for us to enter, but I paused. John Fleming had drawn Doc into this, asked for his help, and then let him walk into danger. To my mind, he was directly responsible for Doc’s current situation. Part of me wanted to throttle the man for being so selfish and irresponsible.

  My more grown-up half realized that discretion might be the better part of valor. After all, John Fleming was also the man who knew where Doc had gone, and why. He was the only one who could tell me what I needed to know. The question was whether he would.

  I took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.

  I had always liked our little den, but this library put it to shame. The room was straight off the pages of an architectural magazine, and made me even more curious about the man who lived here. These walls had mahogany panels as well, with fancy crown molding at the top, and held hundreds of pictures of John Fleming. Some pictures featured him by himself, while others showed him shaking hands with people I didn’t recognize, but assumed to be famous, powerful, or important. I snorted, amused. What kind of man kept that many pictures of himself? Then I saw the built-in bookshelves. Miles of them, lining two sides of the long room, and full of at least ten thousand books. It was a bookworm’s dream. The bookshelves ended in an expansive fireplace, which took up an entire corner on its own, and looked like it could house a small family. A large stuffed moose head sat over the fireplace, presiding over the large, somewhat pretentious “study.” To our right, a desk the size of a small automobile centered itself against the back of the room, right next to a small bar.

  Compared to the house and room, John Fleming was small and relatively unimpressive. He turned from the window behind the desk and strode forward to greet us. As I watched him walk toward us, the fear and anxiety I’d felt for the last hour, the worry over Doc, and the apprehension about approaching this rich, powerful man shifted and coa
lesced into a large lump of ice, sitting right below my heart. I had promised myself that I could be reasonable and handle this situation rationally, in the name of getting the information I needed. I had told myself that I’d be confident and persuasive, eloquent even, in explaining to him why I needed answers to my questions. By the time John Fleming had crossed the carpet to stand in front of me, I wasn’t sure I could do any of that. I was coldly angry.

  “Jason, it’s nice to see you again. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your friends,” he said, his eyes hooded.

  I almost laughed. This wasn’t the same friendly, doddering old man I’d met the other night. This man was suspicious of us. And he was lying. A small part of my fear fell away at his words, and I shook my head.

  “Mr. Fleming, this is my friend Paul Merrell. I believe you already know Reis Slayton. He is, after all, your employee,” I answered softly.

  Paul squirmed and coughed at my unpleasant reply, and Reis grunted in agreement. John Fleming’s expression didn’t change, though I could see his eyes narrow in displeasure.

  “Please have a seat,” he answered quietly. He motioned to a large leather sofa, and sat opposite the sofa in a plush leather chair. Once he was comfortably situated, he turned a false smile on me again.

  “What can I help you with, son?”

  I pulled air in through my teeth and gathered myself. I needed this to go quickly, and as smoothly as possible, so I started with the polite version. “Mr. Fleming, my grandfather is missing. I know that you know where he is, and how I can get to him. I came here to get answers. And I don’t have a lot of time.” I glanced at my watch meaningfully.

  Fleming sat back in his seat but said nothing, so I charged on.

  “I know about the stones, sir. I know that Doc’s used them to go to Medieval England. What I don’t know is why. That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  That got Fleming’s attention, and I sat back myself, satisfied. His expression of serene condescension turned to shock, then to crafty denial.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, son,” he replied quietly.

  I paused. I’d expected denial, but I hadn’t exactly come up with a plan to deal with it. My confidence waivered, and the silence drew out.

  “Oh come on!” Paul muttered, surprising everyone in the room. He glanced at me, raised his eyebrows, and nodded toward Fleming. “Tell him, Jay,” he murmured. “We don’t have time, right?”

  I nodded, speaking quickly at Paul’s goading. “Paul’s right. I’ve only got a few hours to figure out what’s going on, and that’s it. I need to know what I’m looking at. Specifically.”

  Fleming held his hands up. “Boys, perhaps you’d better–”

  Paul cut in before he could finish. “Listen, buddy, perhaps you’d better,” he snapped. “My friend here heard the conversation between you and Doc the other night. He heard everything! We know about the stone, and we know what it does. We know about your nut job son, and his war with Doc.” He paused and glanced at me, questioning. I shrugged back, willing to let him do the dirty work, and he continued. “I think you believe in your son more than you believe in Doc, and that it’s put him in terrible danger. You may not care about saving him, but we do. We need to know what you know. Now.”

  Fleming shook his head and looked angrily from Paul to me. “I’m afraid you misunderstood our conversation, son.” His voice shook with emotion, and his cheeks turned a bright red. This man didn’t like being questioned, and he was losing his temper.

  Paul laughed. “Misunderstood? Really? Is that why armed men just happened to run us down and blow up Reis’ car and half of Jason’s driveway? Or why they broke into their house last week? Why exactly did you hire Reis Slayton to protect Jason, Mr. Fleming? Afraid he was getting bullied in school? Come on! What’s going on here?”

  Instead of answering, Fleming turned to gaze at me for a moment, then moved his eyes to Reis. Reis took a deep breath, nodded, and spoke.

  “The boy’s right. I don’t like being screwed around with, Mr. Fleming, no matter how much I’m making. You obviously know a lot more than you’re letting on. I suggest you tell us what we’re dealing with.”

  Fleming shook his head and stood abruptly. “Boys, Mr. Slayton, I’m afraid I have other business to attend to this morning. This conversation is over. I assume you can show yourselves out?”

  Suddenly a soft, husky voice joined the conversation from the other side of the room. “If you don’t tell them, John, I will. They certainly have a right to know.”

  Fleming’s face went from red to a ghastly pale color, and his jaw dropped open. Reis, Paul, and I turned our heads in unison to see a tall, dark-haired girl standing, hip cocked and confident, next to a previously concealed door behind the bar. The girl had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen, with olive skin, long, straight black hair, and features as sharp and angular as a hawk’s. She was beautiful, but unspeakably frightening. She studied each of us unapologetically, her eyes moving from Reis to Paul and me, her expression burning coldly as though we were her next prey. Raising her eyebrows at what she saw, she settled back onto the desk, and began tossing a green apple from hand to hand.

  I gulped, unnerved by this girl’s cool arrogance, and tried to collect my thoughts. Paul stared. John Fleming coughed in embarrassment and closed his eyes.

  “Gentlemen, this is my granddaughter, Tatiana. Tatiana, this is–”

  The girl named Tatiana interrupted her grandfather in an even, bored voice. “I heard the introductions, John.”

  Fleming’s mouth turned down, and his face grew two shades darker. “Tatiana, I believe I’ve asked you not to listen to–or interrupt–my private meetings. This kind of behavior is completely unacceptable, and if it continues–”

  She interrupted again before he could complete his threat. “What’s unacceptable, John, is that you keep these nice people waiting for their answers. Now, as I said, let them in on your little secret, or I will. When it comes to the subject of Nicholas Fleming, I have every right. And you know it.” She turned to look at me and bit slowly into her apple, narrowing her eyes. “I believe they were asking about Dr. Evans’ whereabouts.”

  Fleming coughed again, and narrowed his eyes. “It seems, gentlemen, that I have little choice. I am, however, unsure where to start–”

  This time it was Reis who interrupted. “Why not the beginning?” He glanced at me, and at the large grandfather clock on the wall. “And keep it short.”

  Fleming nodded his head and paused for a moment before speaking. “Several years ago, my son became involved with treasure speculation.”

  “What’s that?” Paul asked.

  A ghost of a smile passed over Fleming’s face. “To be blunt Paul, it’s an excuse for wealthy people to spend millions of dollars on treasure hunts, pretending that they’re doing it in the name of history and science. The expedition that discovered the Titanic, located the Bismarck, and stumbled onto King Tut’s tomb … all of those adventures costs untold millions of dollars. My son wanted to be one of those treasure hunters, and he turned to me for support.” Fleming paused. “I gave my son what he asked for, and sent him on his way.”

  “Get on with the explanation,” Reis growled. “We’re not here to explore your relationship with your son.”

  Fleming nodded, beaten into submission. “Yes, yes. Several years ago, my son came across a stone identical to the one your grandfather has in his possession. This stone was in Romania, buried under a 1200-year-old Greek temple. He found the stone interesting, but had no use for it at the time, and put it in a storage facility. Two years later, he found another stone in the Sudan, virtually identical to the first. Same markings, same polish and color, same ... sense of power.”

  I squirmed in my seat, already impatient with the story. Fleming was evidently used to people hanging on his every word, and enjoyed drawing it out, giving the play-by-play version. I needed to know what had happened, but I could see
the clock ticking on the other side of the room, and had a running countdown in my head. The stone opened again at noon today. I still didn’t know what I was dealing with–or have a plan for moving forward–and this old man was going to take the rest of the morning answering a simple question.

  “For nearly a year, my son and his colleague studied the stones, concentrating on the symbols they contained. They tried to interpret the language of the symbols, and find the tools used to inscribe them, to no avail. Seven months ago, another stone was discovered, this time in our own backyard in Plainfield, New Hampshire. Again, same markings, color…” Fleming let out a deep sigh before continuing. “I purchased the stone from a local developer for a moderate sum and brought it to Dartmouth for my son to study.” He paused, rubbing his temples, and I lost my patience.

  “Enough of the history lesson! Will you cut to the chase, already?” I snapped. I wanted answers, and this guy was babbling like I had all the time in the world. “I need answers, and I don’t have all the time in the world!”

  “Hear, hear,” Tatiana agreed from the desk.

  Fleming held one hand up. “I’m getting there, son. Nicholas was convinced that the stones were significant, most likely the greatest find of our time. But he couldn’t unravel their secrets. After several months of study, he decided that the symbols were mathematical rather than linguistic, and that we needed the help of a physicist or mathematician.” He looked directly at me. “When I brought your grandfather to see the stones, everything changed.”

  14

  I straightened up. Now we were talking. If Fleming was going to describe Doc’s involvement with the stones, maybe I’d finally get some useful information.

  The old man took a moment, walked to the bar, and poured himself a glass of what appeared to be scotch. He took a long swig and closed his eyes, as if the discussion was more than he could stand.

  “I’d offer you some, but I don’t believe that would be appropriate,” he said with a smile. “Where was I?”