Crown of Serpents by Michael Karpovage Page B

quite know what to do.”
    “If you do the right thing I’m sure you will get more value out of it than money can buy. You could even garner major publicity for your actions and for your association. I know for a fact that Boyd’s remains are buried up in Rochester at Mt. Hope Cemetery along with his sergeant, Michael Parker, and their Oneida Indian guide Honyost Thaosagwat. There is even a Masonic monument up there dedicated to the ambush of his scouts. I would suggest contacting the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons of the State of New York should you need any help.”
    “Thank you Major. Thank you. I think I’ll do just that.” She placed the scalp back in the box. “By the way, how do you know so much about the Freemasons?”
    “The foundation of this great country was built on Masonic principles, therefore one takes an interest.”
    “Indeed. Well, I am sorry but it looks like your time is about done, so please excuse me, I need to lock everything back up. You are free to walk around and explore the rest of the fort if you’d like. Please keep the gloves. Oh, and I took care of your admission fee too.”
    “Thank you,” said Jake. He peeled the white handling gloves off and placed them in a pocket. “I want to digest those journal entries first and then report back to MHI. We’ll get you our assessment as soon as possible. Oh, do you have wireless Internet access here at the fort?”
    “In fact, we do. We won a grant recently and installed the system to attract more visitors. The main hub is in the museum shop along the riverside wall. But you can get an excellent connection anywhere in the fort.”
    “Great. Thank you for your time and it was a pleasure meeting you.”
    “And the same to you Major Tununda. Goodbye.”
    Jake grabbed his beret, shouldered his tote, and opened the door to let himself out. Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of sinister-looking dark eyes.
    Standing directly in his path was an older man about his same height, definitely an Indian, definitely not happy. Wiry gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, a square strong jaw, pockmarked face with hollow cheeks. He reminded Jake of someone beset with sickness. He was broad shouldered and had the lean frame of a boxer. He was dressed in a stylish black suit with a starched white shirt open at the collar. His neck revealed a silver serpent on a necklace.
    There was movement from beyond the doorway. Two larger Indians stepped in behind their apparent leader. These were presumably a security detail the way they carried themselves. Jake made firm eye contact with each of them. One, an ugly brute, even had traditional facial tattoos under each eye — streaks of blue — as Iroquois warriors would wear during battle to intimidate their enemy.
    Jake settled back on the man blocking his way. “Excuse me,” he stated in a casual voice, leaning to one side to pass by. He watched as the man’s eyes finished sweeping Jake’s nametag, ribbons, and insignia. The man refused to budge.
    In a scratchy voice, the man asked, “Is Marge Hibbard in here?”
    Jake raised an eyebrow. “Yes, she is. I was just leaving. Excuse me.” He moved close and the man finally gave way to let him by. They bumped shoulders. Upon contact, the two bodyguards made a threatening motion forward. Jake ignored them both, turned and walked down the hall.
    One of the guards closed up on Jake’s heels. “Don’t ever touch the merchandise again,” he threatened from behind. “Ever.”
    Jake spun around. It was the tattoo-eyed thug. “Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes.” The man’s facial expression turned to instant rage. He looked like a snarling pit bull ready to bite.
    But then from around the corner they heard Ms. Hibbard greeting the new guest. “Ah, you must be Mr. Alex Nero. Right on time.”
    “Get back to your master, Clown Face,” Jake spat. “You’re out of your league.” He turned his back on the bodyguard and simply walked away. He could