“The grave is right here.” She looked around, making sure they were alone, then flicked on her light.
Dane had expected an elaborate tomb, but only a simple headstone marked the victims’ resting place. It read:
The Remains of
SAMUEL GRAY
SAMUEL MAVERICK
JAMES CALDWELL
CRISPUS ATTUCKS
and
PATRICK CARR
Victims of the Boston Massacre
March 5, 1770
“I thought it would be bigger,” Bones said. “What now? Find a shovel and start digging?”
“I don’t know.” Dane circled the grave marker, looking it over, and then shone his light across the ground. “Wait! Check this out.” His light shone on an old foot marker. Unlike its counterparts on the surrounding graves, this one was large, with a thick, brass plaque attached to the weathered stone. It bore no writing, only single image.
“It’s the crossed circle again!” Jillian whispered. “I think this is it!”
Dane thought so too, but didn’t want to jinx them by saying so.
“Listen, how about you two find a place out of sight to wait for me? Three people with flashlights, huddled around a grave in the middle of the night could draw attention. Give me a minute to get my night vision back and I’ll be good to go.”
Jillian started to protest, but Bones took her by the elbow and steered her away into the darkness.
Dane took out his Swiss army knife and set to work on the screws that held the plaque in place. They didn’t budge. More than two centuries of exposure to the elements had frozen them solid. He tried prying the plaque loose with one of his knife blades. It gave a little — enough for him to see a hollowed-out space behind it. Encouraged, he kept working, but made no further progress. Minutes flew and Dane grew increasingly frustrated. Finally, in a fit of pique, he ran to the nearby fence, wrenched off one of the ornamental top spikes, wedged it beneath the edge of the plate, and used a rock to hammer it in until the plate broke free.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bones called softly. “Trying to wake the dead?”
“I had to. I’m done now.”
“Hurry up. With our luck, O’Meara’s right around the corner.”
Cupping his Maglite to hide its beam, Dane shone it into the hollowed-out section of the foot stone, revealing a hinged, metal door with four numbered tumblers. A Colonial combination lock!
Dane bit his lip. What four digit number might work? He thought of the headstone and tried 1705. No joy. He racked his brain for any dates that made sense: Samuel Adams death in 1803, Lexington and Concord in 1775. Neither worked.
He checked his watch. In a few hours, the streets would begin filling with people celebrating Independence Day. Time was almost up.
Independence Day! That was it. He chuckled and turned the fourth tumbler.
1776
This time, the door swung open and he reached inside and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth, and unwrapped it to reveal a thin rectangle encased in a leather cover. The cover was, in itself, a work of art: the Liberty Tree, Faneuil Hall, and the Old North Church were stamped into its surface. An ornate band ringed the edges. He opened the cover and something slid out and fell to the ground. He tucked the cover into his backpack and picked up the fallen object: a small book bound in plain leather, the pages inside yellow and brittle with age. The inscription on the first page read:
The Journal of Samuel Adams.
Eager to see what was written inside, he moved into the shadow of an elm tree, flicked on his light, and held it in his teeth and carefully turned the pages. He saw nothing that resembled a clue. The pages were filled with Adams’ thoughts on freedom and liberty, but nothing that resembled a code, and certainly no hint of any secrets. He frowned. He had a sense that he was missing something obvious, but what? Invisible ink?
“Maddock!” Bones whispered.
Dane raised his head just in time for a bright, white light to blind him.
“It’s you. Step out here and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Shielding his eyes, Dane moved toward the sound of O’Meara’s voice. “I can explain.” In fact, he couldn’t explain. At least, not if he planned on lying, which he absolutely intended to do.
“Do I really need to tell you that grave robbing is a crime?” O’Meara lowered his light and Dane squeezed his eyelids closed and tried to shake away the bright spots that filled his vision.
“I wasn’t robbing a grave. I’m doing research.”
“I don’t have time for your lies. Give me Adams’ journal and I’ll let you go.”
“Did you say Adams’ journal?” Dane couldn’t believe it.
“Try playing games with me and I’ll shoot you for resisting arrest.” O’Meara took a step closer, still holding his revolver steady. “Give me the journal.”
“How did you know?” Sudden understanding struck him. “You’re a Son of the Republic.”
“Not as dumb as you look. I appreciate you being our bloodhound, but your usefulness is at an end. I’m not going to tell you again. Give me the journal.” He leveled his service revolver at Dane’s midsection.
Dane considered his options. Running was not a good idea. At this distance, O’Meara would have to be a lousy shot to miss, and he stood too far away for Dane to try wresting the weapon from his grasp.
“Fine.” Dan closed the book, sighed, and tossed it in a high arc.
As the book flew through the air, two things happened: someone cried out in the darkness and, as O’Meara turned toward the sound, a rock struck him on the forehead. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his head.
Dane took off, weaving through the maze of gravestones and crypts, following the sound of pounding feet that he knew to be Bones and Jillian. He caught up with them quickly, and they ran together until they reached the Benjamin Franklin statue far along the Freedom Trail. Fresh off the first stage of SEAL training, the run took no toll on Dane or Bones, but Jillian was gassed. She stood, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
“You think he’s coming after us?” Bones asked, looking out into the darkness.
“If he does, it won’t be on foot. He’d never catch up with us, assuming you didn’t give him a concussion. In any case, he has no reason to follow us now. I gave him the journal.”
“You did what?” Jillian panted. “We have to go back. You can’t let him have it.” She started to head back in the direction they had come, but Dane stopped her with four words.
“We don’t need it.”
Jillian froze and turned slowly around, stray locks of hair plastered to her glistening forehead. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.”
They huddled in the shelter of the dense shrubbery by Old City Hall, and Dane took out the leather cover.
“There was nothing in the journal, but look at what it was wrapped in. I didn’t realize what I was looking at, but it struck me right about the time O’Meara asked for the journal.” He shone his light on the symbols around the edge of the leather rectangle. “Look familiar?”
“The symbols from the key! So the journal itself was a red herring. Nice job, Maddock.” Bones gave Dane an enthusiastic fist bump. “Some of these are pretty worn out, though. Do you we’ll be able to translate them?’
“I’ve got a plan. Jillian, lend me your notebook and pencil.” He tore out a sheet of paper, laid it over the leather square, and began lightly rubbing the edge of the pencil lead over the paper. Soon, the symbols appeared.
“My partner knows his stuff.” Bones’ voice held a note of pride.
“Partner?” Dane raised an eyebrow and passed the sheet to Jillian for translation.