He knew Regan's dead body would be hard to explain to authorities without revealing everything that had transpired — something President Rudd and Wiley were adamant about keeping under wraps. He removed Regan's tank and fins and, as unsettling as it was, stuffed her dead body inside Reese's casket. He closed the lid to the casket sealing her inside.
After he rotated the metal plate back on top of the vault, he reinserted the bolts and gave each a few turns to keep the plate intact on top of the concrete vault. One final sweep of the knoll to ensure no indication remained of his presence. Only another draining of Watauga Lake and close inspection of Reese's grave would uncover any tampering. By then, it would be just another one of history's mysteries that could never be solved.
Jake released the mooring ball from the bottom, letting it drift freely toward the middle of the lake, grabbed the ropes that he'd secured to the utility bags, and ascended to his first deco stop.
Once onboard his bass boat, he noticed the afternoon sun was setting lower in the western sky. He still had a lot to do and he was running low on time. He hoisted each utility bag to the surface, placed them inside his boat, started the outboard engine, and headed back to the lakefront cabin.
The cooler air cleared his head while he thought about what had transpired so far and began to wonder about the fate of President Rebecca Rudd. The secrets he now possessed about Rudd made him wonder if perhaps she had known all along. But if she didn't know, how would she handle the inexplicable threat to her presidency? She was a savvy politician and one of the most beloved in recent history. There were no scandals. No skeletons in her closet — until now.
Christa Barnett potentially knew the truth about Rudd. She'd translated the journal for Regan, so, as unlikely as it seemed, with some research she could have made the connection. Even though in the short time he'd been exposed to her, neither she nor Regan had said anything that suggested they had any interest other than the hidden treasures. Eventually, he'd have to find Barnett and let Wiley debrief her. In exchange for her silence, no criminal charges would be filed. She'd be convinced that it was necessary for national security. She could return to her life as a graphic designer and never discuss her adventures with Ashley Regan again. Or the journal.
Abigail Love, on the other hand, was a problem. A big problem. He knew Evan Makley had hired her to get the journal. In the beginning his motives may have been altruistic, but greed clouded his judgment. Or perhaps it was an overwhelming desire for self-preservation. He had commissioned Love to obtain the book at any cost, which she had done.
Now, it seemed, Abigail Love was a target. According to Francesca, she was nabbed as soon as she returned to her car. It wouldn't be long before she realized her panicked dash from the lakebed to the surface might prove to be the last mistake of her life.
40
Scott Katzer was surprised how easy it was to kidnap the woman who had been following the man he saw kick in Ashley Regan's front door in Charleston. If it hadn't been for her, he wouldn't be here now.
And he wouldn't have the book.
It almost felt like the book had been handed to him. It was like child's play.
When he first spotted her at the marina, he thought she was drunk by the way she staggered toward her car, her faculties definitely impaired. She didn't resist when he grabbed her and threw her in the back of the van. Almost like she wanted to lie down. She didn't attempt to yell or struggle while he bound her arms and legs. It was a disappointment, anticlimactic. He was looking forward to a struggle with the woman. He craved the feeling of dominance. He wrapped duct tape over her mouth in case she sobered up and then he drove off.
Within minutes, she became nauseated. He heard her retching behind the tape. Fearing asphyxiation on her vomit, he pulled the van to the side of the road and removed the tape. That's when he noticed splotches on her skin and wondered if her rash, nausea, and malaise were due to some sort of allergic reaction. He lifted her up, one arm under her legs the other under her back, and hoisted her into a casket in the back of the van. The same casket he'd used to transport Samantha Connors. He closed the lid to the casket but left her mouth uncovered.
He got back in the driver's seat, pulled back onto the highway, and headed toward Nashville.
Years in the funeral home business might have dulled his olfactory senses but an hour into the journey he thought he smelled urine and he flipped on the rear compartment light. Urine leaked through the air vents and was dripping from the base of his specially designed casket. Son of a bitch. When he thought about it he realized he smelled the urine soon after she had, what he thought was, a mild seizure. It should have been his first clue to her health. Now, instead of her constant moaning and writhing, she was still and quiet, but breathing.
He had what his mother feared would end up in the wrong hands. She longed for the journal. That was all that mattered. His aging mother could have peace. The thing she said would lead them to a staggering amount of wealth or make them loath its existence, was now lying on the seat beside him.
A chronicle of her past and her evil deeds.
And the key to his own history.
Abigail Love had never felt this ill in her entire life. Every joint in her body throbbed with pain and stiffness. Her head pounded and she was sick to her stomach. She opened her eyes, darkness swallowed her. Every breath was labored.
She raised her head but it slammed into something above her — something padded. Where am I? Her clothes were wet. The smell of her own urine flooded her nostrils.
She tried to move her arms but there was little sensation. All she could figure out was that her hands were bound behind her. Her shoulders ached. She tried to move her legs without success. Bound at the ankles.
What had happened to her? One minute she was walking to her car, the next she was restrained inside this box, soaked in her own urine. It was all a blur.
A wave of nausea caused her to double over. Her head and feet smashed into the walls of her prison. Then a tremor rolled through her body. It started at her feet, moving toward her head until she shook violently and uncontrollably. What was happening? Her head jerked back and forth, slamming into the padded walls. Pain racked her body and she couldn't stop the spasms.
White spots floated in front of her eyes.
Again, she felt warm and wet.
The convulsions eased, spots faded, welcome sleep enveloped her.
Jake slipped the bass boat into the boathouse behind the cabin and tied it off. He had a lot of things to haul the one hundred feet or so from the dock to the cabin and he knew it would take several trips. Without hesitation he grabbed the three utility bags containing the contents of the casket, hoisted them over his shoulder, and carried them up the steps to the cabin. The leather pouches inside still saturated from decades underwater. Three bags totaling 75 pounds of gold and silver plus the weight of the plumber's wrench, the crowbar, and the mallet — roughly a hundred pounds…give or take a few, two bags over one shoulder, one over the other.
Once inside the cabin, he dropped the heavy bags on the floor, removed the tools, and tossed them aside. His first order of business was to secure the gold and silver.
Thirty minutes later, Jake had sanitized the cabin, concealed the casket's treasure in the Tahoe, changed into street clothes, and was already two miles down the highway leaving the cabin, Watauga Lake, and the town of Butler, Tennessee behind with no intention of ever returning.