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

next destination is a place called Red Clay State Park about twenty miles from the city of Chattanooga.”

“I have heard of it.”

Ulrich was a little surprised by this statement. “You know about this place?”

The older man replied as if he were talking to a child, “Of course. It was the location of the capital of the Cherokee Nation for hundreds of years up until the relocation began in the late 1830s. Their people believed it to be a sacred land, full of mysterious power. They thought that the ancient dead inhabited the forests surrounding the area and that those spirits would protect them.”

“Schultz believes we will find something there that will point the way to the first chamber,” Ulrich added.

“Was he specific about what it was that might be found there?”

“No. Only that the area was where we should be able to find the next piece of the puzzle.”

“Is he being cooperative?”

“Yes, for the moment. He has not given us any trouble. We should be to the next location in a half hour or so.” Ulrich waited a few seconds, trying to decide on whether or not he should tell his employer about the shootout that had occurred earlier.

Before he could begin again, the Prophet cut in. “I have some concerns, Jens.”

This was an unexpected statement. “Such as?”

“Your methods are getting sloppy,” remarked the voice coldly.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“First, the professor. Then the two police? There are too many body bags lying in your wake. I must encourage you to be more discreet.”

Ulrich clenched his teeth in an effort to control his emotions. “I do what I deem necessary to complete the mission, sir.”

“Understood. Just make sure you do complete it.” Then he added, “But it cannot be done in a way that will draw attention to our purpose or to me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.” There would be no telling the man on the phone about what had happened earlier that morning.

“One last thing, Ulrich,” the voice in the earpiece interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes,” he replied, irritated.

“A body was found near a church yesterday. From the description in the police report, it sounded like one of your operatives. Should I assume that was your doing?”

The question was an insult. He knew the police would find the incompetent assistant he’d shot the day before and didn’t care. The man had no identification that could be connected to anyone in the operation.

Ulrich took pride in being very good at what he did. Now this ignorant man had the gall to insinuate he was incapable. “I assure you, sir, the situation is completely under control. Will there be anything else?” His tone was sarcastic.

“No. But do not fail me, Jens. If at any time I need to bring in someone else, I will not hesitate.”

With that, the call was disconnected.

Foolish old man, he thought. The wealthy always felt that with money came power. They push people around like pawns on a chessboard. “I am no pawn,” he said quietly as he slid the phone back into his pocket.

Jens peered down the road against the glare of the sun and adjusted his sunglass on his face. An eighteen-wheeler rumbled by. “You will see, old man. I am no one‘s pawn.”

40

Blue Ridge Mountains

Morris teetered on the edge of the steep slope amid the mangled remnant of the guardrail. A few bits of broken glass and plastic were strewn about on the dirt shoulder next to the road.

Will was busy talking to one of the accident site investigators, trying to figure out what exactly happened. It had taken the rescue crews more than an hour to get down to the bottom of the ravine where the wreckage of the Mercedes lay. Upon arriving, they discovered the two occupants were, as they suspected, dead.

The driver’s body was crumpled against the upside-down windshield, his neck broken from the impact. About twenty feet away was the body of the passenger. His twisted body was riddled with bullet holes.

Who they were, though, was a total mystery. Neither of the two dead men had any kind of identification. And the fact that they both had gunshot wounds was indeed bizarre. The car itself had at least a dozen bullet holes riveting the metal and windshield.

Trent took a step back from the precipice and sauntered back to where his partner was finishing up with the lead CSI. The short gray-haired man in the traditional navy blue jacket with yellow lettering walked away, being called over to another marked spot to examine something.

“What did you find out?” Morris asked.

“This is nuts.” Will’s voice was half in disbelief and half-excited. They have found bullet casings all over the road for the last mile or so. One of the bodies in the car down there has a round in the arm. The other one has a couple of bullet wounds, one of them to the neck.” He looked down the road, contemplating the scenario. “There must have been quite a shootout here.”

Morris took a swig from a bottle of water he was holding. “Any ideas who or what these guys were shooting at?”

“The cops here don’t have a clue. All they do know is who lost.” He finished this last sentence by jerking a thumb toward the torn railing. Then his voice lowered, “But if you ask me, I think it was Wyatt.”

So it would seem. These kinds of things didn’t just happen out in this part of the country. Even in the worst parts of Atlanta, car-to-car shootouts were a rarity. The whole scenario brought up more questions than answers. Why would someone other than the police be chasing Wyatt?

After a few moments of