Monk was driving slowly down Shelbyville Highway south of the city. At this hour, it was deserted, which allowed him to focus all of his attention on the call. Kat also listened in on the other end, from Sigma command.
Heisman filled them in where he’d left off in his scholarly investigations. “Sharyn and I pulled everything we could on the Lewis and Clark expedition and its relationship to Yellowstone. I also consulted with Professor Henry Kanosh just a few minutes ago. He saved me much time and effort by researching the Native American side of the equation.”
Gray urged the man along, sensing the press of time. Kat had already informed him that Painter, along with a French team of Guild operatives, was already en route to Yellowstone, where the two groups would jointly work on the puzzle from ground zero. Not a good situation from any perspective. Gray was determined to help from afar in any way he could.
“And you found no evidence that Lewis and Clark’s team ever entered Yellowstone?” Gray asked.
“No. But I find it odd, almost beyond comprehension, that they missed it. The expedition crossed to within only forty miles of the park. According to Professor Kanosh, the Native American tribes had been secretive about the geothermal valley, but the expedition had bushels of trinkets and coins to ply Indians for any information about unique natural features: plants, animals, geology. Someone would have eventually tipped their hand and talked about such an unusual valley.”
“So you think they did find it?” Seichan asked from the backseat.
“If they did, they erased their tracks very well. So far the only evidence we do have to support such a claim is weak at best. We know all records of Archard Fortescue came to a halt after he left with the expedition led by Meriwether Lewis. We know Lewis was murdered a few years after returning. But that’s a far cry from saying either of them found that lost Indian city, that heart of the Fourteenth Colony.”
“Then let’s work this backward,” Gray suggested, turning the puzzle around in his head. “Let’s start with the death of Meriwether Lewis. Let’s assume the expedition did discover the truth and that Lewis’s murder was somehow connected to the discovery. Can you tell us again about the manner of his death?”
“Well, he was struck down in October of 1809, at a wayside inn called Grinder’s Stand in Tennessee, not far from Nashville.”
Gray glanced to the others.
Nashville?
Monk mumbled, “Oh yeah, looks like we’re still dogging after those guys. First to Iceland and now Tennessee.”
Heisman didn’t hear him and continued: “Again, there’s no solid explanation for Lewis’s death. Despite the double gunshot wounds—one to the gut, one to the head—his death was deemed a suicide. It remained the belief for centuries, until just recently. It’s now widely accepted that Lewis was indeed murdered, whether as part of a robbery or an outright assassination or both.”
“What details do we know about the night he died?” Gray asked.
“There are numerous accounts, but the best comes from Mrs. Grinder herself, the innkeeper’s wife, who was there alone that night. She reported gunshots, sounds of a struggle, and heard Lewis call out for help, but she was too scared to check on him until daybreak. She eventually found him dying in his room, barely hanging on to life, sprawled atop his buffalo-skin robe, which was soaked in his blood. It is said his last words were mysterious. ‘I have done the business.’ As if he’d thwarted his murderers in some manner at the end.”
Gray felt his pulse quicken with the telling, knowing this had to be important. But there was something else Heisman had mentioned . . .
The curator wasn’t done. “But rumors are many about Lewis’s last days, about who might have killed him. The best evidence points to Brigadier General James Wilkinson, a known conspirator of the traitor Aaron Burr. Some believe the general orchestrated the murder. Those same stories hint that Lewis was still acting as Jefferson’s spy, that he had with him something vital that he wanted to bring to D.C.”
Gray pictured one of the gold plates. Was Grinder’s Stand the place where the Guild originally got hold of their own plate? He recalled how he imagined Lewis as a colonial version of a Sigma operative: spy, soldier, scientist. Was Wilkinson one of the great enemies mentioned by Jefferson and Franklin, a predecessor to the modern Guild? Did he murder Lewis to gain possession of that tablet?
Gray felt history repeating itself.
Is that same battle still going on two centuries later?
Still, he sensed he was missing a key element to the story, something that snagged in his mind, but slipped through without catching.
Seichan beat him to it. “You mentioned that Lewis bled out on top of a buffalo-skin robe.”
“That’s right.”
Gray glanced at her appreciatively, but Seichan merely shrugged. “Dr. Heisman,” he asked, “didn’t Fortescue’s journal mention that the mastodon’s skull was wrapped in a buffalo skin?”
“Let me check.” Heisman whistled slowly, the sound accompanied by a shuffling of pages. “Ah, here it is. It’s mentioned simply as ‘a painted buffalo hide.’ ”
“Whatever happened to it?” Seichan asked.
“It doesn’t say.”
Gray followed up with his own question. “Is there any record of Jefferson ever owning a painted buffalo skin?”
“Now that you mention it, yes. In fact, the president amassed a huge private collection of Indian artifacts that he kept in his home at Monticello. A highly decorated skin was one of his showcase items. It was said he received the hide from Lewis, who sent it back from the trail during the expedition. It was said to be stunning and very old. But upon his death, most of Jefferson’s collection, including that spectacular hide, vanished.”
Odd . . .
Gray ruminated for a time. Could the buffalo hide in all these stories be the same one? Had Lewis taken it with him in order to help him find that lost city? Did it take both the map and the hide to solve the puzzle of the Fourteenth Colony? Afterward, did Lewis send the hide back to Jefferson as some token of his success?
Gray knew he had nothing solid to go on: there were too many suppositions, too many holes. For example, why was the skin again in Lewis’s possession at the time of his death? Was its presence the reason he spoke those cryptic words in the final moments of his life—I have done the business? Had he lost the gold tablet to Wilkinson or some other thief, but retained the more important buffalo hide?
A new player in the game spoke. “Dr. Heisman,” Kat asked over the phone, “can you tell us anything about what happened to Lewis’s body?”
“Nothing special. A tragedy considering he was such a national hero. But because his death was deemed a suicide, he was buried on the spot, on the grounds of that same inn. There in Tennessee.”
“And can we assume he was interred with all of his possessions?” Kat asked.
“That was usually done. Sometimes the authorities would send any money found on the bodies or something of sentimental value to their surviving heirs.”
“But not likely a blood-soaked buffalo hide,” Gray added.
Monk stirred, taking his eyes off the road. “You think he might still be buried with it?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Gray said. “We have to dig up the body of Meriwether Lewis.”
Part IV
Wolf and Eagle
Chapter 35
June 1, 4:15 A.M.
Yellowstone National Park
The helicopter lowered toward the steaming geothermal heart of Yellowstone. Night still claimed the primitive landscape of bubbling pools, white-gray cones, and fog-enshrouded rivers and creeks that spanned the upper geyser basin. Farther out, dark meadows and black stands of lodgepole pines stretched toward the distant plateaus and mountains.
But man had carved his own mark into this national treasure, this contrasting mix of quiet natural beauty and hellish geological activity. In the predawn darkness, lines of streetlights and trails of headlamps map
ped the few roads winding through the park. The evacuation Painter had ordered was under way, turning the park at its peak season into a massive traffic jam. The flashing blue lamps of park service vehicles dotted the thoroughfares, as rangers did their best to empty the park.
He checked his watch.
Two hours left.
Not everyone would get clear in time, but he had to try. He had started the evacuation two hours ago as he left Flagstaff and raced north in a private jet to the small airport in western Montana, a few miles from the western entrance to the park. The helicopter ferried him the rest of the way to the rendezvous point.
A parking lot rose up below them. Two other helicopters already rested below in neighboring lots. It looked like Rafael’s team had beaten him to the place, but they had a head start, flying directly out of Salt Lake City. The two teams were to meet inside the Old Faithful Inn, a colossal landmark of the park, built in the early 1900s. The seven-story rustic hotel, with its steep roofs and heavy beams, was the largest log structure in the world, built from locally harvested pine and quarried stone.
It had been built here as the perfect vantage point from which to view its namesake.
As the skids of the helicopter touched down, the geyser lived up to its reputation. A vast flume of steam and boiling water jetted nearly two hundred feet into the air from the most famous of the valley’s geysers. Old Faithful’s eruptions occurred roughly every ninety minutes.
Painter prayed that the valley would still be around for the next scheduled show.
Beyond the geyser, the dark Firehole River wound across the upper basin, lined by more geysers, each with crazy names—Beehive, Spasmodic, Castle, Slurper, Little Squirt, Giantess, and many more—along with numerous vents, pools, and steaming springs.
The helicopter door cracked open, releasing Painter’s party into this blasted, wondrous world. But they weren’t here for sightseeing.
“Stinks,” Kowalski commented—but Painter didn’t know if he was referring to the air’s sulfurous taint or their dire situation. His partner stared sourly around, tugging his long duster more firmly over his shoulders.
Hank climbed out next, followed by his dog, who ran ahead to mark a lamppost. Jordan helped the professor out. Painter had tried to get the young man to remain behind at Flagstaff, but the kid offered a good argument.
If you fail, I die anyway. I’d rather go down fighting.
But Painter also knew what it was that drew Jordan north. The young man’s eyes stared toward the massive hotel. He wasn’t appreciating the architecture, but trying to spot any sign of Kai. Painter was anxious, too. The fate of the entire world was too large a notion to take to heart, too bulky a concept to fully grasp.
Instead, it came down to those you loved.
Jordan’s fear was simple to read, concern for the safety of a single terrified girl squeezed the young man’s heart into his throat. Likewise, Painter prayed he’d get to see Lisa again. Their last conversation on the phone had been necessarily brief, given that the fate of the world was hanging in the balance. Lisa had been strong, but he heard the tears behind her words.
“Let’s go,” Painter said, waving forward the last members of their group.
Ronald Chin followed, along with Major Ashley Ryan. Three other National Guard soldiers accompanied them, carrying large trunks. Ryan had collected the additional manpower at the Montana airport, teammates up from Utah, while Painter had ordered the trunks of equipment flown in.
According to the parley Painter had with Rafael prior to leaving Flagstaff, each team was restricted to the same number of members. Painter didn’t want this to become a pissing contest. They had work to do—and it had to be done fast, with a minimum of drama.
Reaching the hotel’s front entrance, Painter pushed through a huge set of plank doors, painted a fire-engine red and strapped and studded in black iron. As he stepped inside, the sight took his breath away. It was like entering a lamp-lit cavern made of logs. The sheer volume of the open four-story space drew his eyes upward. Balconies and staircases climbed toward the roof, all railed by twisted, contorted pine logs, stripped of their bark, glowing golden in the light. In the middle, dominating by sheer mass, rose a towering stone fireplace. It was the central pillar and hearth of the lobby.
The cavernous space seemed especially large because it was empty. Like the park, the hotel had been evacuated, except for a skeleton crew who’d volunteered to remain behind and protect this treasured place. It was a futile gesture. No one could protect anything against what was coming—they could only try to stop it.
To that end, upon spotting Rafael’s party, Painter crossed toward them. They had taken up residence amid a collection of Mission chairs, rockers, and coffee tables. A larger trestle table from the neighboring lobby restaurant had been carried over and turned into a makeshift computer lab. Miniservers, LCD screens, and other digital equipment were being rapidly assembled, overseen by a scrawny, nervous-eyed technician and a familiar-looking dark woman.
From that woman’s shadow, another familiar figure appeared.
“Uncle Crowe . . .” Kai stepped into view.
Jordan ran forward. “Kai!”
Her face brightened upon seeing him. She moved to greet him as he hurried toward her, raising one of her arms to hug him. But suddenly she was snagged to a stop by the larger woman’s grip on her wrist. A jangle of steel links drew Painter’s eye, correcting his assumption. The African wasn’t holding Kai—the two were handcuffed together.
Jordan drew to a stop, also noting the situation.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Painter asked, stepping forward.
“Merely insurance, Monsieur Crowe.” Rafael rose from one of the chairs, needing his cane to help him up. Small wrinkles of pain etched the corner of his eyes. Apparently the ride here had taxed his frail body.
“What do you mean, insurance? We had a deal.”
“Indeed. I am a man of my word. The agreement was that I’d safely return your niece once you revealed the location of the lost city.”
“Which I did.”
“Which you did not.” Rafael lifted his arm to encompass more than just this hotel. “Where is this lost city, then?”
Painter realized that the Frenchman was right. He stared into Kai’s forlorn and scared eyes. Her hand had found Jordan’s during his exchange with Rafe. He also noted the thickness of the cuff’s bracelet around Kai’s other wrist. A tiny red light was blinking.
Rafael noticed his attention. “An unfortunate necessity. The handcuffs are powered, creating a closed circuit, connecting the two bracelets. Break that circuit, and a small, but powerful charge will explode with enough force to take off your niece’s arm and likely a good portion of her torso.”
Kai looked aghast at Rafael. Apparently her captor had not revealed this extra bit of security to her.
“I thought this best,” Rafael explained. “Now you will not be distracted by the thoughts of wresting your niece from me. We can both concentrate on what must be done. In the meantime, she is perfectly safe until we complete our transaction.”
The tension in the room seemed to thicken the air between the two forces. Backing up Rafael, his Aryan bodyguard rested his palm atop his holstered sidearm. Five mercenaries flanked their leader.
They were at an impasse—and time was running out.
Painter had said he didn’t want drama, and here he was adding to it. He needed to end this.
Painter gave Kai a firm look of assurance. He would get her through this—somehow. He turned back to Rafael. “Did you bring the gold wolf’s-head jar?”
“Of course.” Rafe hobbled around. “Bern, bring that valise to the table.”
The soldier obeyed, stalking across to a medium-size case on the floor. He hauled it atop a coffee table and opened its lid. The golden canopic jar lay nestled in protective black foam. The two gold tablets, stolen by Kai out of the Utah cave, were also inside.
Hank noted the tablets, too,
and moved closer, but Bern extracted the jar and snapped the lid closed. The soldier crossed and placed the artifact on the table next to the computer workstation.
Again Painter was struck by its beauty, from the perfectly sculpted head of a timber wolf to the handsomely etched mountain landscape. But he did not have time to appreciate such artistry. Instead, he studied it as if it were a piece to a puzzle.
Without turning, he pointed his arm back. “Kowalski, go unpack our gear.”
Rafael stepped beside Painter, his movement accompanied by a waft of spicy cologne. He leaned on his cane with both hands. “Do you truly think this will help us narrow down our search of these two million acres?”
“It must. The satellite passes of the park are of little use.”
En route to Yellowstone, Painter had pulled every string he could, raising the alarm all the way up to the Oval Office. With President Gant’s signature, along with approval of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Painter had commandeered every available satellite in orbit. The entire park had been scanned across every spectrum: ground-penetrating radar, geomagnetic potentials, thermal gradients . . . anything that might offer a clue as to where a lost city might be buried.
He’d come up with nothing.
“Problem is,” Painter said, “this terrain is riddled with caverns, caves, vents, lava tubes, and hot springs. Pick almost any spot in the park and there seems to be some cavity or pocket underground. The city could still be anywhere.”
“And the physicists?” Rafael asked.
“We’ve got every expert in subatomic particles trying to calibrate and pinpoint the source of the massive neutrino flow from this region. But the volume of production is so prodigious that they could narrow the scope only to a two-hundred-mile radius.”
“Useless,” Rafael commented.
Painter agreed. He had one hope. It rested on the table. The landscape on the canopic jar. Some ancient artist had taken a great deal of time to etch it so meticulously upon the bottle.
The Devil Colony Page 37