The Lost Order (Cotton Malone 12)

Sibley Memorial.

And a name.

Stephanie Nelle.

The information desk had supplied the room number after she lied and said she was the patient’s sister.

She’d fled Alex’s apartment building without encountering anyone. Surely Taisley Forsberg’s body had been found by now and the police alerted.

But she still had time.

The elevator climbed to the fifth floor.

Something about hospital elevators was always different. They seemed to move so quickly and smoothly. The doors opened and she stepped out into a corridor crowded with gowned nurses and attendants. She followed the signs toward the room number she sought, Alex’s gun heavy inside her purse.

“A woman I care deeply about.”

That’s what Daniels had said. Why should he be allowed to care about anyone? All he’d done was destroy everything she’d worked for. And though she could do nothing about the interference of the Knights of the Golden Circle, Senator Danny Daniels could be dealt with.

A sign indicated that Stephanie’s Nelle’s room was around the next corner. She approached, turned left, then stopped, retreating out of sight. Ahead, Daniels stood in the hall talking to another man.

Good.

He was here.

She risked a peek and watched.

After a few moments the man left Daniels and headed her way. She drifted back, spotted an open doorway for one of the patients’ rooms, and slipped inside. The space was dark and unoccupied. The man she’d seen walked by and headed on. She watched as he disappeared around a corner.

Back at her original position the corridor was clear.

Daniels was nowhere to be seen.

But she knew where he’d gone.

* * *

Danny approached the bed. “I’m having your man let Atlanta know that you’re going to be fine. I’ll tell Cotton when he checks in. We’ve all been concerned.”

“Nice to know you care.”

“It’s more than that, and you know it. I love you.”

She seemed surprised to hear the words. And maybe she should be. They’d been tough for him to say.

But not anymore.

“It’s time we be clear with each other,” he said. “I always thought it would be me in that hospital bed. Not you. That’s not a sight I want to see again.”

Her eyes warmed. “I love you, too, Danny.”

The door opened.

He turned, expecting to see a nurse or doctor.

Instead Diane Sherwood entered.

And he did not like the look in her eyes.

Especially when she locked the door.

“Who are you?” Stephanie asked.

Diane removed a gun from her purse and aimed it across the room.

“This ain’t good,” he muttered.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

NEW MEXICO

Cotton examined the ultralight’s square-tipped gray wings, delicate angular tail fins, and rear stabilizers, all connected by a thin skeleton of metal tubing that supported a single seat and controls. The whole thing resembled an enormous aluminum moth. An air-cooled engine, not much more power than a go-cart, and a single propeller provided thrust. He’d flown ultralights before, enjoying more than one Sunday afternoon cruising low over the Øresund. They were available for rental at a local airfield and he’d made it a point to take some lessons and learn. This one was a bit different from the Danish version. A little heavier, equipped for search and rescue.

The Taos County deputies had driven him to a grassy field just outside the Carson National Forest, where they kept a fleet of the flying lawn chairs. He was told that they were the fastest and easiest way to keep tabs on a huge rural county, capable of long range and low altitude, with the ability to land and take off from almost anywhere.

He strapped himself into the seat and started the engine, which fired to life. He lifted his foot from the brake and maneuvered the craft toward the meadow. More throttle revved the propellers to full strength and he picked up speed, then quickly went airborne, scudding off the hard ground.

Rick Stamm had taken what they knew from the available stones and compared it with satellite imagery of the Carson National Forest. Since the park stretched across four counties and encompassed nearly 1.5 million acres, the target had to be narrowed. That information came from Danny Daniels, who’d learned that land once owned by Angus Adams was key. Luckily, the Taos County land records were digitized and available online, which allowed Stamm to isolate the correct 1500 acres of land. Northern New Mexico had once been inhabited by the Anasazi, who’d left behind a slew of adobe ruins. Eventually Europeans claimed everything, the titles all tracing back to land grants by both Spain and Mexico. In 1908 a national forest had been established, named for Kit Carson, with Angus Adams’ initial gift forming its central nexus.

Inside his helmet he wore a headset, connected to a radio. He’d reported to Stamm what he’d discovered on the edges of Adams’ journal. Amazingly, the church depicted still existed, more a ruin than a functioning building, the other three structures wasted away to their foundations, but still there in the satellite imagery, situated in a triangle as on the Horse Stone.

A river ran beside the four buildings, an offshoot of the nearby Rio Grande, one of many that crisscrossed the Carson forest, and the topography suggested that the church occupied a rise, just as the fore-edge painting had indicated. The folks back at the Smithsonian in DC had even provided GPS coordinates, which he’d entered on the cockpit’s compass.

One of the deputies informed him over the radio that the vehicle with the Breckinridges was closing in on the same coordinates. Apparently the older Breckinridge either found the fore-edge painting or already knew where to look. He asked about the old church, but none of the deputies knew much about it. One of the park rangers was an expert on the local history, and the deputies were making contact with him.

He climbed to five hundred feet and admired the rugged mass of terrain. All around him were dark-brown contours of mountains, fissured sweeps of plateaus, green valleys, and endless stands of spruce, aspen, fir, and pine. The sun began to creep above the eastern horizon, casting crisp-edged shadows, slowly lighting the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with their namesake reddish hue.

The blood of Christ.

He suddenly felt a connection with Angus Adams, who’d lived amid this raw, undisturbed beauty. A landscape devoid of people. Not a speck of civilization in sight as far as he could see. Back then it would have been even more isolated.

The cyclic control stick moved between his legs, his feet resting on rudder pedals. He worked them both in unison, keeping the craft steady. He loved flying, particularly this kind—which was about as close to being a bird as a person could get. But it was a noisy experience, the engine whining loud behind him.

“We have some more information,” a voice said in his ear. “The church has been there since the 18th century, but it suffered a lot of damage during an earthquake in the 1920s. It’s been a partial ruin ever since. Hikers use it as a reference point since it sits high. It’s fairly isolated and no one gives it much thought. There are a few hundred more just like it scattered all across New Mexico.”

He hadn’t heard what he really needed.

“What was it called?”

“It’s had a few names, no one knows which one is right. We call it Pasto al Norte.”

Which he immediately recognized from the Horse Stone.

Shepherd of the North.

Good enough for him.

* * *

Cassiopeia stood outside the car, her hands still bound, but at least she was in brisk morning air. They were high in forested mountains, parked among the trees about fifty meters off the highway. Proctor was out, too, stretching his legs, clearly waiting for something. A cigarette dangled at a raffish angle from his mouth. Silence reigned around them. They’d been waiting for nearly half an hour, dawn steadily arriving in the eastern sky.

She heard the growl of a car engine that drew closer, headlights cutting a jagged path through the trees.

Another vehicle appeared and pulled to a stop.

Two men emerged.

One older, the other young. Proctor shook hands with the older man, who introduced the younger as his son, Grant.

She made the connection. Grant Breckinridge. Who’d hired and sent the three men to Morse’s bee house.

“Is this our federal agent?” the older Breckinridge asked.

“Cassiopeia Vitt,” Proctor said.

The older man pointed a finger at her. “I suspect she may be the reason we lost that gold in the truck.”

“We can only hope.” She was pushing her luck with the sarcasm and wondered how long her usefulness would last. They would kill her the moment she was no longer needed, which might not be all that far away.

Proctor finished his smoke. Then he and Grant opened the trunk of the car that had brought her from Arkansas.

“It’s good to be back,” the old man said, studying the ever-brightening sky and sucking deep breaths of the clean air.

The trunk slammed shut.

Proctor returned, shouldering an automatic rifle. Grant carried a pick and shovel, along with a backpack.

“Let’s go find that stone,” Breckinridge said.

She’d already surmised that there was nowhere for her to run. So she had no choice but to cooperate. Some feeling in her arms and legs had returned, though her tied wrists and shoulders hurt. The old man led the way into the trees, followed by Grant, then her, with Proctor at the rear.

A new sound disturbed the silence.

Like a high-pitched whine.

Constant.

Far away.