The Secret of the Stones by Ernest Dempsey (reading fiction .TXT) 📕

on the picture, but from the looks of it, it was probably five or six years old. Carefully, Morris lifted the picture off of its hook to get a closer examination. He flipped it over to check the back. There was a notation on the back that read, Mobile Bay, AL. 2003. Mississippian-Era Statues.

Will interrupted his thoughts. “You got something?”

Entranced for a moment, Trent snapped back to the present. “I don’t know. But I think we need to talk to this Sean Wyatt.”

“You think he’s the one behind this?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. But think about it. Who else would have known what Schultz was working on, much less have understood it? The person who broke in here sure seemed to know where to look for what they needed. And Sean Wyatt is former special ops. It’s the only explanation we got at the moment.”

Pondering the theory for a moment, Will added, “We gotta find Wyatt.”

“Exactly.” Morris moved quicker now, dropping the picture carelessly on the desk. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket as he and his partner swiftly went down the stairs and outside. Finding the number he’d saved earlier, he pressed the send button. The two men stepped out the front door and down onto the sidewalk as the phone on the other end went straight to Wyatt’s voicemail.

“Sean, this is Detective Morris,” he tried to maintain a calm tone. “Give me a call back when you get a chance. We just got some new information concerning Schultz’s kidnapping, and we need you to come in to help us out. Thanks.” Sliding the phone shut, he slipped it back into his pants pocket while he opened the door to his police-issue Dodge Charger.

“What you want me to do?” Will stood on the sidewalk, notepad still in hand.

“Make sure everything gets finished up here. I doubt the CSIs will find anything, but stick around for a couple of minutes just in case. Call me if they find anything, and if not, call me anyway.”

“What about Wyatt?”

“I’m going to keep calling him.  Doubt he’ll answer.” Then he added, “Get home, and get some rest. I’m afraid tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

21

Cartersville

Sean and Allyson stood on the front porch of what appeared to be a rather large log cabin. The drive had only taken about fifteen minutes from the interstate to the wooden home, but it seemed like they were out in the middle of nowhere. Above them, the black sky glittered with more stars than Allyson had seen in a long time. Sounds of nature filled the night: cricket songs with croaking frogs and the melodies of nocturnal birds. The air was scented with a mixture of hardwood and pine.

She drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs and mind with the nature around her, melting away the stress of the day’s bizarre events.

Lights were on in the house, but Sean had to knock a few times before they heard footsteps drawing closer to the door. Within the confines of the cabin, a dog barked and howled vigorously, announcing the visitors.

A moment later, the doorknob twisted, and the heavy wooden entrance creaked open. On the other side, a short man with beady eyes and a scruffy beard stared out at them. His brown hair laid in casual disorder atop his round face and head. Infrequent streaks of gray patched his facial hair. The man’s flannel shirt and jeans completed the lumberjack look. He appeared to be in his midforties.

No more than three seconds after realizing who was standing in front of him, Sean and the smaller man were embraced in a friendly, back-slapping hug.

“Sean Wyatt. Where the heck have you been?” The voice was cheerful, accented by a heavy Southern drawl.

“I’ve been busy,” Sean answered with a smile, releasing his friend. “Mind if we come in?”

“Mind? Get in here, wild man.” He stepped aside to let the pair in, closing the door. “And who is your friend here?”

“Joe McElroy, this is Allyson Webster. She’s a journalist for the Atlanta Sentinel.”

She removed her hand from her pocket and offered it. “Pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely home here.” Her eyes roamed the living room they had just entered.

“Thank you.” Joe looked around at the timber-enclosed area. The cabin was rustic, with the exception of the flatscreen television near the fireplace and a computer workstation near one window.

“The floor is much older than the rest of the house,” he said. “It came from an old knitting mill in Chattanooga, Tennessee. They were going to destroy the building, so I asked the city if I could take all of the flooring out before they did.” His hands spread out across the breadth of the room. “I didn’t have a place to install it at that time. I just knew I had always wanted to have a cabin like this, so I took the wood and put it in storage until construction began.”

“Very cool.” She seemed to be very impressed.

The bearded face beamed a big smile. “And this here is Roger.” He pointed to a blue tick hound that had just plopped down on the floor next to the entryway.

Apparently, the dog was no longer interested in the visitors and lowered his head to the hardwood.

Sean interrupted, “Joe, I don’t mean to ruin your HGTV moment here, but we need your help.”

The smile never left the man’s face. He just said, “Help? Sean Wyatt needs my help?” A chuckle escaped the grin.

“Yeah.” Sean’s serious tone sobered the moment.

Apparently, Joe understood and motioned to the couches, “Sit down, and tell me what’s goin’ on. You can always