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

was having. So, in a last-ditch effort to save the ancient tribal fortune, he contacted some of the leaders of the Mormon Church and made them a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Allyson poked.

Nodding, Sean agreed, “Yeah, the Cherokee hardly seemed in a position to make a deal with anyone, Christian or otherwise.”

“True, but don’t underestimate religious values of the zealous. The Mormons held the Indians in the highest regard. They were treated almost like living saints.” He stood and walked over to the fireplace and stoked the flame with the black metal poker a few more times before saying, “And let’s not forget, the Cherokee had something that every church in the world seems to crave: money.”

“So, you are saying the Mormons helped siphon off millions in gold right under the noses of the federal government?” Sean was still skeptical.

“Absolutely. But there is something you need to remember about the relationship between the Mormon Church and the Native Americans.”

“Which is?”

“They both needed each other. The Indians were treated like animals, and the Mormons were outcasts. Without the Mormons, the Cherokee would not have survived the journey west, nor would they have been able to salvage their treasure. Likewise, the Mormons would have faced annihilation at the hands of other tribes as they moved farther west had they not possessed something that would ensure their safe passage.”

“What do you mean by that last sentence?” Allyson was intrigued. “What did the Mormons have that would keep them safe from other tribes?”

Joe persisted, “Look at the history of all the white settlers that went west. There are literally hundreds of stories of Indian attacks on the wagon trains. Everyone knows about them. But there is not a single recorded incident of any tribe ever attacking a Mormon settler or a group of Mormons. Why do you think that is?”

Allyson and Sean looked at each other again, wondering what the answer was.

Joe answered the question for them, “Remember the local stories I told you about the gold bars? There was a symbol on each yellow brick, right?”

They both nodded.

“John Ross told the Mormon leaders that if they would use that symbol in their wagon trains and show it to any Indian they came across, their people would be granted safe passage.”

“So, there was a universal symbol that every Native tribe in the country knew and acknowledged?” Sean still wasn’t convinced.

“Look through the history books, buddy. I can’t make this stuff up. There was not a single recorded Indian attack on Mormon settlers, ever. Seems a little odd, doesn’t it?”

“So the gold that the Mormons were smuggling kept them safe from being attacked by all tribes?” Sean still didn’t see how it was possible.

“It wasn’t the gold that was so important. What every tribe respected was the symbol on the gold.”

“And what exactly was this symbol?”

Joe smiled as he replied, “It was the same one that is on that medallion.”

26

Atlanta

The phone on the other end rang another time before the voicemail came on the receiver. Morris had attempted to call Sean Wyatt’s cell phone three other times without success. Sean was either ignoring the call, or he was in a place where wireless service was poor. He doubted it was the latter.

Tired and frustrated, Trent had left the scene of the double homicide hoping that he could at least talk to Wyatt. The voicemail beeped after a short message. “Hey, Mr. Wyatt. Trent Morris here from Atlanta PD. Please give me a call back as soon as you get this. I have a few more questions I want to ask you. I appreciate your help. Thanks.”

He flipped his phone closed and tossed it into the empty passenger seat. The Charger veered from the middle lane of the interstate over to the far right lane as his exit approached on the right up ahead. Fatigue was starting to get to him, and his eyes seemed to get heavier by the second. Fortunately, other cars were sparse at this time of night. He maneuvered up the exit ramp leading toward home.

As he turned at the stoplight, a thought occurred to him. Reaching over, he picked up the phone again and pressed some numbers. A few seconds later, someone answered on the other line, “Homicide.”

Recognizing the voice on the other line, he said, “Lynch, it’s Trent Morris. I need you to do me a favor. You busy?” He imagined the young detective sitting alone at his desk, the rest of the police department having long since disappeared for the night. They always kept someone on hand, though, for emergencies.

“Nah, Trent. You know the routine. Pretty much just sitting here playing solitaire. What’s up?”

“Hate to interrupt you,” he replied with a laugh, knowing he’d done the same thing ten years ago. “There’s something I want you to take a look at.”

“Hit me.”

“Look up any known associates that Sean Wyatt might have, other than Thomas Schultz. I’m trying to figure out where this guy may have gone today.”

“You want me to just look up people he knows within a certain radius?” The young cop was efficient. Morris liked that.

“Yeah. And see if you can get any outgoing flight information from Hartsfield International.” He added, “I know that the IAA has their own private jet, but it could be that they decided to take a commercial plane. It’s unlikely, but check it out anyway.”

The other end of the line was quiet for a second as Lynch was busy jotting down all the information that Morris wanted. “All right, sir. Anything else?”

“I think that about covers it.” Then he had another thought, “Oh, Lynch, go ahead, and check to see if his cars have LoJack.