“One way to find out.” Feeling foolish, Stone grabbed the brass circle and rapped three times. The sound echoed through the stone passageway.
“Nobody home.” Alex tried the big doorknob and confirmed that it was locked. “Not to worry.” He once again dipped into his pack, took out a skeleton key, and began to work at the old-fashioned lock. “I was more adept when I had two hands. Not that it’s anyone’s fault.” He cast a meaningful look at Stone.
“If I could buy you a new hand, I would,” Stone said.
“Don’t worry about it. For some reason, the ladies now find me fascinating. I haven’t paid for my own drinks since our trip to the island.”
“You’ve become such an optimist,” Stone said. “A regular Pollyanna.”
“I never read those books, but I saw the film.” Alex grinned. “Mary Pickford?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Are you going to pick that lock or shall I break the door down?” Stone said.
“Almost there.” A few seconds later, Alex turned the knob and the door swung open.
Beyond the door lay an empty cave. Stone shone his light around. The beam climbed the walls up the to the apex of the high ceiling and back down to the bare floor.
“There’s nothing here.” Alex ran a hand through his hair. “Why the trapdoor and the hidden tunnel? Do you think this was a secret meeting place for the Illuminati?”
“Perhaps.” Stone moved out into the chamber. He had spotted something unusual. Around the edges, the cave floor was smooth. In the middle, however, a square section about twelve feet across was rough, as if it had been broken up with hammer and chisel. He and Alex knelt for a closer look.
“It looks like something has been removed,” Alex said, “but what?” And then his eyes brightened. “What if the pyramid up there…” He pointed at the ceiling. “Was originally down here?”
Stone shrugged. “I don’t know. This chamber feels old… older than the pyramid in the field.” He stood, looked around again. He felt as if they were missing something. And then his sharp eyes fell on a rough patch on the wall. Moving closer, he saw more chisel marks. “Look at this,” he said to Alex.
Alex took the flashlight from Stone and inspected the spot carefully. He frowned, scratched his chin with the tip of his hook. “This looks like a coverup to me. Something was carved here. You can still see bits and pieces of the writing.” He pointed at a patch the vandals had missed. There was a set of sharp, straight lines, smooth with age, that looked like writing. One complete figure looked familiar to Stone.
“This resembles the glyphs I discovered on the island in the Devil’s Triangle.” Stone shook his head slowly, considering this revelation. If this place were connected to the island, that meant it had something to do with his grandfather’s work. It also meant that others, including John Kane, might be interested in finding it. That meant it was important.
“I assume whoever obscured the writing on the wall also removed whatever stood in the center of the cave,” Alex said. “But what was here, and who took it?
“I don’t know.” Stone shook his head. “But I’m determined to find out.”
5- Constance
Brock Stone stretched and breathed deeply of the evening air. Mist hung low over the Potomac River and the last traces of sunset painted the horizon pink. He was puzzled by what they had found in the hidden chamber. He had spent the afternoon in his grandfather’s library, hoping to find the key to deciphering the mysterious glyphs. So far, he had found nothing helpful.
Stripping down to his skivvies, he waded into the cold water. He barely felt it, such was his mental focus. It was one of many skills he had acquired while studying with monks in Tibet. Isolated in his mental cocoon, he waded out until the water was waist-deep, then began to swim. He propelled himself against the Potomac’s gentle current with powerful strokes. He was as committed to physical fitness as he was to mental acuity, and these regular swims were an important part of that discipline.
His sharp ears caught a low thunk in the distance, the sound of a wooden paddle striking a gunwale. He paused, treading water, and looked around.
About a hundred yards away, a young woman paddled a canoe. She was straining to maintain a straight course, whispering harsh curses every fourth or fifth stroke. As Stone watched, she steered the narrow craft toward the far shore, let out a stream of invective, and switched her paddle to the other side. She leaned into her strokes, digging the wooden blade deep into the water. The canoe began to tilt.
“Sit up straight,” Stone called. “You’re going to tip.”
The warning did not have the desired effect. Instead, the woman let out a yelp and tried to stand. That was a mistake. The canoe capsized, dumping its occupant into the water.
Stone made a beeline for the woman, who broke the surface seconds later, sputtering and splashing. She went under, then came up again.
“Help!”
Stone reached her just as she went under again. He hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her out of the water. She struggled, kicking and flailing.
“Stay calm. I’ve got you.” Stone kept his voice level. Far too often, drowning people managed to take their rescuers down with them.
“I can’t breathe,” the woman gasped.
“Yes, you can. I need you to lie back and let me support your weight. I will keep your head above water.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Brock Stone.” He didn’t know if his name meant anything to her. Why would it? But he felt her relax. As she floated on her back, he hauled her over to her canoe and she clung to it like a life preserver.
“Can you swim?” he asked. “Or at least keep your head above water until I can get you back to shore?”
She glared at him, intense blue eyes shining behind a curtain of sodden blonde hair. “Yes, I know how to swim, but my dress is weighing me down.”
“Why would you wear a dress to go boating?” Stone laughed.
“Do you honestly think I haven’t asked myself that question half a dozen times since I fell in?” She let out a sigh.
Stone nodded. “Think you can slip out of it?”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Sorry, but I’m not some flapper.”
Stone blinked. “Flapper? It’s the 1930s.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Forgive me for having better things to worry about than what women of loose morals are called these days.”
“Your moral superiority just might drag you down to the bottom of the river. Seriously, you will have a hard time keeping your head above water with it on. I promise won’t look.” He saw her hesitate and hurried on. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m in my shorts.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “That makes it worse, actually. Oh, fine. Just stay close by and make sure I don’t drown.”
Holding on to the upturned canoe with one hand, she first removed her shoes one by one and handed them to Stone. Next, after a great deal of effort and a few more curses, she managed to free herself from her dress, which she flung at Stone. It struck him on the cheek with a cold, wet slap.
“I’ll pull the canoe, you hang on to the stern. Feel free to push if you’re able.”
“I think I can manage.”
“Good,” he said, taking hold of the bow and beginning to swim. “By the way, do you have a name?”
“Constance Cray.”
“A pleasure to meet you, present circumstances notwithstanding.”
When they reached the shore Stone turned his back while Constance wrung out her sodden dress and slipped it back on. The damp fabric clung to her shapely figure, and Stone tried not to look. He was a gentleman, and he had a girlfriend who was prone to jealousy.