Drago #5 (#2b). Art Inc. Spinella
Federal. Either the SOB behind this works for the government or he or she has inside info on the non-government group behind it.”
“Agreed.”
“We also know they – whoever they are – have some mighty big pull to be able to call up a black ops hit squad to take out anyone with knowledge of the Celtic arrival in America at or around the time Native Americans established their roots here.”
“Also agreed.”
“So why? What purpose? Why would anyone get their tighty whities in a knot because of something that happened ten thousand years ago?”
“Some sort of financial payoff…”
“Or damage to a financial source. Correct. This has to be based on money. And lots of it,” Sal said. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes and went silent for a minute. We’d been friends since high school and I knew when to keep my mouth shut and let him ponder. He was pondering.
I let the early morning sun wash my face, closing my eyes and seeing the glow on the backs of my eyelids. “Government and money usually means politics. Who loses if Indians are somehow found to be the second nation in America?”
“I’ve given that a lot of thought, Nick. Not the judicial branch. No reason. In fact, they’d probably welcome a case as complex as one pitting two ancient peoples fighting over who came here first. The legislative branch is a good possibility because, as we’ve so smartly determined, this is about money and who are the money grubbers of the first order? Senators and representatives.”
“Yeah, but do any of them have the power or connections to call in a hit squad?”
“A couple, maybe, but not likely.”
“That leaves the Executive branch. You think?”
“FBI, CIA, NSA, DHS…”
“Don’t forget CTU.”
“Please no Jack Bauer jokes, okay?”
“Once someone tried to tell Jack Bauer a ‘knock knock’ joke. He not only found out who was there, but who they worked for and where the damn bomb was.”
Sal shook his head. “Enough.”
“Jack Bauer shot Helen Keller in the knee to make her talk.”
“I said enough, Nick.”
“Know why there’s no life on Mars?”
“Stop.”
“Because Jack Bauer visited there once.”
“Are you done?”
Draining my coffee mug, “I got a million of ‘em, Sallie.” Opening my eyes and leaning forward so I could reach the donut plate, “So you think it was one of the alphabet gang?” Popping a Lil’ Orbit, “Don’t buy it. For what purpose? They’re good at getting the DNA of a dog dropping so they can send a hit team to capture someone’s Shih Tzu, but what reason would they have to get in the middle of an ancient civilization scuffle?”
A moment of silence, then, Sal said, “Aside from the gold, none. I’m not saying the orders came from the military or FBI or NSA or whoever, only that they’re the only ones with a black ops team sufficiently cold and ruthless that would kill innocent bystanders.”
“I could name drug cartels that would disagree with that.”
“For what purpose? The cartels don’t need the cash. They could care less about ancient civilizations unless there’s more gold to be found. And that would only be a drop in the bucket compared to what they make off of drug running.”
I shrugged. “Got me. But that goes for everyone we’ve been thinking about. Who has the pull to order up such a team?”
“We’re talking in circles, Nick. And once again we’re into the Executive branch of government.”
“Bureaucrat, you think?”
“High level, for sure.”
“Committee, group, rogue, what?”
“I’d bet on a deep background committee. Don’t think a single rogue bureaucrat could put the squeeze on one of the alphabet agencies to murder people. Again, almost every security or intelligence group in the government has its own black ops team, but it takes some mighty big muscles to convince the head of the CIA, for example, to turn a sniper loose and make people disappear.”
“Could be, probably was, a bunch of freelance shooters. Ex-military.’
“Still has to come from someone in government.”
I stood and walked down the deck stairs to my fabulous country lawn of mowed dandelions, scrub grass and an assortment of other weeds. Don’t mock it. Green is green even if it’s not Kentucky Blue.
“Sal, we’re not going to figure this out by guessing.” I picked at the bark of an old shore pine that I’d notch every year with the height of the kids as they grew up. I’d fire up the chainsaw, lay the bar flat on each kid’s head, tell them to run like hell (which they did) and make an inch deep cut in the tree. Today that’s called child endangerment. Back then, it taught kids to respect, not fear, dangerous equipment.
“Agreed. We need to start where the trail started.”
“Maine?”
“Well, we have to eventually get to Maine, but I thought we could backtrack. First Colorado then Illinois.”
The entire Tree Man episode began when we found a perfectly formed, highly polished and magnificently valuable gold ball in a clay egg hanging around the neck of a skeleton entombed in a 200 year old Madrone tree. Long story short, it pointed to a band of Europeans arriving on the Oregon Coast hundreds of years before any previous record of Europeans in America. The clay egg, when opened, revealed a minutely detailed map of the Coos County region in artistic perfection and accuracy with gold inlays.
As further investigation unfolded, we found similar stories of Tree Men across the country of those who had knowledge of the gold balls. Some had cashed in and paid off mortgages; others had invested in real estate. Unshackled from the chains of debt, all had become moderately wealthy.
And dead.
“What was the name of the town in Colorado?”
Sal pulled his iPhone, tapped on a few keys and pulled up a file from his iCloud account; scanned the information and, “Holly. Holly, Colorado. Southeastern part of the state. Arapaho Indians had a tale of gold balls and men in trees.”
“Are you suggesting we go to Maine, too?”
“Nick, that’s where it all started.”
“I won’t go to Maine.”
Sal sighed, “And why not?”
“There are no important people from Maine. The most notable thing about Maine is a lobster. Ain’t even human.”
“Stephen King is from Maine.”
“He’s an alien. That doesn’t count.”
Sal chuckled. “You’re just jealous because he sells more books than you.”
“He’s an alien. He can mind-control people into buying his stuff. Come on. Evil clowns? You think a publisher would give anyone other than an alien a few million bucks to write about a clown living in sewers and eating kids? Ha.”
Sal sighed again, but I continued, “Illinois, Abe Lincoln. Louisiana has Satchmo. Tennessee, Davey Crocket. Texas, well there are just too many to name. California has the Cisco Kid.”
“And Jerry Brown.”
“Another alien. Doesn’t count.”
“I can’t believe you think Stephen King is an alien.”
“That’s my