The sun was setting by the time she finished with the second container. She leaned back against a cottonwood tree and admired her handiwork in the dying light—a knife, a spear, and two watertight bowls. How nice it would be to drink from a cup instead of slurping water out of her hands.
She’d accomplished a lot, but it paled in comparison to what lay ahead.
11
Washington, D.C.—James Cullen
JC stood in his walk-in closet, buttoning the black herringbone vest. But before putting on the sack coat, he used the biometric fingerprint fast-access option to open his tactical weapons safe. The interior had a series of horizontal bars that allowed the attachment of nearly anything with a clip. His holsters, sheaths, and MOLLE-compatible pouches were easily accessible, along with the few antique firearms. He picked up a sleeve gun, à la James West in The Wild Wild West TV series, and strapped the slide and derringer to his right arm. Just to be sure it worked correctly, he popped the slide, and the gun appeared in his hand. Good! He added a Glock to his hip and another one to an ankle carry holster. A boot knife completed his arsenal.
Three guns and a knife. That should do it.
A black slouch hat completed his costume. He checked his appearance in the wall mirrors and approved of what he saw.
Returning to the bedroom, he folded his extra clothes into the bedroll. He then packed the saddlebags with a Dopp kit, mess kit, rain slicker, canteen, MREs, antibacterial body wipes, water purification tablets, first-aid kit, and energy bars.
Now, what should I do with the gold?
There was always a chance of being robbed, so he didn’t want to carry the nuggets in one pouch. He divided them into four piles and wrapped each one in a handkerchief. He shoved one into the side of his boot, another one in his Dopp kit, another in his saddlebag. The last one he hid in the lining of his jacket.
Satisfied with his packing, he slung the saddlebags over his shoulders, tucked the bedroll under his arm, then headed toward the kitchen to get an oven mitt. If the brooch heated the way he expected it would, the glove would protect his hand.
He was tying the saddlebag laces when Paul entered the house and paused in the doorway. “Man, you look like the real thing.” He circled JC, checking him out. “The jacket fits. How about the pants?”
“Pretty good. Thanks for finding them.”
“Sure. So, are you ready to go?”
JC grabbed his gear and led the way to the garage, and forty-five minutes later, Paul drove into the Meadowbrook Stables in Chevy Chase, Maryland.
“Are you going to ride Mercury to North Dakota or wherever you’re going?” Paul asked.
“I’ve got a ride. A friend’s picking us up here in about an hour.”
Paul responded with his usual sly eyebrows-above-his-aviators expression. “You’ve got a brand-new truck and horse trailer. Why aren’t you driving?”
“Don’t need to.” JC climbed out and grabbed his gear. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. And if Dad shows up, tell him what you know.” JC closed the door and headed toward the barn without looking back.
“If you run into trouble, give me a call,” Paul yelled.
JC didn’t respond. Paul knew he was lying, but damn it, there wasn’t anything JC could tell Paul that would ease his mind.
When JC entered the barn, he breathed in deeply. There wasn’t anywhere in the world that gave him as much pleasure as a stallion barn. Growing up, he spent more time in the barns than in his playroom. To him, the combination of horseflesh, musty blankets, leather, pine shavings, and hay was as enticing as Aunt Maria’s pepperoni bread right out of the oven.
Mercury’s stall was at the end, and the horse sensed JC’s presence, pawing the floor and neighing before JC appeared at the stall door.
“Hi, there, boy.” JC dropped his bedroll and saddlebags outside the stall and opened the door. “Want to go for a run?” Mercury pawed the floor again. JC paid for full-service boarding, and he’d already texted the farm to let them know he was taking Mercury away for a few days.
Mercury stood still, quivering with eagerness, while JC saddled him, using his favorite western saddle with a Cheyenne roll. He removed the oven mitt before tying the saddlebags and bedroll to the back of the saddle, then led the horse from the barn before mounting up.
“Let’s go, boy.” Mercury carried him across the paddock and into the trees bordering the Rock Creek. “Hold on, buddy,” JC told the horse. “You might not like what’s about to happen.” He put on the oven mitt, opened the brooch, and, holding it tightly, recited the chant…
“Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
An explosion of sizzling sparks preceded the fog, and an electrical current zapped his hand and ran up his arm to his shoulder. Despite the protection of the thick mitt, he couldn’t hold on to the brooch and dropped it just as the fog consumed him and his horse.
12
Chevy Chase, MD—Paul
Paul’s spidey senses had alerted him that something was wrong. He tried to call JC, but it went straight to voice mail, so he returned to the stables to confront JC before he left with Mercury…but arrived just in time to watch him disappear.
Now he emerged from his hiding place in the woods and knelt near the spot where JC vanished in the funny-smelling fog. On the ground was an antique brooch with a hot-to-the-touch orangey stone split in half and held together by a tiny hinge. He picked it up, closed
