When he was in the cemetery earlier in the day, he noticed a large monument under a low-hanging blue spruce tree with the family name Crane. The grave of Michael Patterson Roundtree was fifteen feet inside the wagon wheel design from the Crane marker. The space between the spruce tree and the Crane marker offered him an ideal location to await his prey, with a clear vantage point of anyone approaching Roundtree's grave.
By ten minutes past midnight, Jake had settled beneath the canopy of the large spruce tree. Now came the hard part — sit and wait.
49
At 1:45 a.m., Jake saw headlights on Mountain Avenue coming toward the cemetery. One of the things he'd noticed about the western states was most of the roads were oriented either East-West or North-South. And they were long and straight. When the vehicle reached the entrance, it made a u-turn, headed east, and slowed. Jake pulled out his spyglass and searched for the vehicle.
It stopped in front of the Fort Collins Housing Authority. Same place he'd parked. He hoped his vehicle wouldn't raise suspicion. He readied himself. It shouldn't be long now and he would be facing Rudd's blackmailer.
Almost ten minutes passed and no sign of anybody. He remembered Wiley's advice; Always let your quarry come to you. He remained silent. Then he heard it. A faint sound at first, steadily growing louder. A shuffle step followed by a clank. Shuffle step. Clank.
The noise grew closer when another sound startled him. He heard a snort and then the sound of hooves pounding against the ground. It grew stronger. The ground felt like a stampede. The blackmailer had startled several deer and one of them was running straight at Jake. He pulled himself flush against the Crane grave marker. The Grandview Cemetery was a regular zoo at night, he thought.
Jake listened. Nothing.
The shuffle step had stopped. Jake knew the blackmailer must be close.
Too close for him to move.
A few moments later the blackmailer moved enabling Jake to get a better fix on the intruder's location. He eased a glance around the stone marker.
His target, shovel in hand.
The dark figure was hunched over a grave. A beam of light flashed across the marker of Michael Patterson Roundtree.
Jake silently withdrew his gun and stepped from behind the Crane monument.
"Arthur DeLoach. I've been expecting you."
The old man jumped. Even in the pale moonlight, Jake thought he could see the distress on the old man's face.
"How? Who are you?"
"I've come to put an end to your grave robbing," Jake said.
"How…how could you know?"
"Wasn't difficult. The Internet is a wonderful tool. You can research anything you want, but it leaves a trail. A cyber trail. And that's what you did. You left a trail. And the breadcrumbs led me here."
"What are you talking about?"
"You never should have tried to blackmail the President."
"What are you talking about?" The old man truly sounded surprised. "I haven't blackmailed anyone."
"Mr. DeLoach, We know about everything. We know you either copied or scanned Ashley Regan's journal when she brought it to you for restoration. We know you've been selectively digging up graves with stolen artwork in the caskets. What you didn't keep in your Charleston home, you sold."
"Sold? I have sold nothing." The old man sounded indignant. "You have made presumptuous accusations. The Nazis were the thieves who stole those art pieces. All I wanted to do is return them to their rightful place, the museums."
"Everything in your home has been seized," Jake said. "All of the art confiscated. Everything you have done has been for naught."
"You've been in my home?"
Jake nodded.
"You don't understand. When Ashley Regan brought me the book, I knew its value. I speak German. I knew what was in that journal. If I hadn't done it, she would have." DeLoach said. "She is the one who would have sold them. I have an appreciation and understanding of great art. These pieces need to be displayed where art lovers can go and enjoy them. If she had taken them then there is no telling where they would have ended up. These pieces don't belong in someone's private collection. They belong to the people. They should be in a museum. Ashley Regan is an idiot."
"Ashley Regan is dead."
"Dead?" DeLoach wobbled on shaky legs. "Oh my. No one was supposed to get hurt. I didn't want anything like that to happen."
"You should have turned this over to the authorities. People have died. And now, you're going to jail."
"I don't understand. I was so careful. How did you know? How did you find me?"
"Like I said, you can't blackmail the President of the United States and expect to get away with it. Those emails you sent were traced back to your computer. A tracker virus was uploaded and we followed you from cemetery to cemetery. Your computer led me here."
"My computer is at home." DeLoach's voice had become somber. "I never sent any emails."
"No, but I did."
The voice came from behind him. Before Jake could turn around, a blunt metal object slammed into his back. He fell to his knees. Pain radiated across his upper back.
"Zula Mae. No." DeLoach yelled.
50
The last thing he remembered was the old man yelling somebody's name. As he regained consciousness he heard two people talking. Arthur DeLoach and a woman. She must have been the one who hit him from behind. Jake's head throbbed after she hit him with something and knocked him unconscious. His back hurt. His neck hurt. He lay face down on the ground and listened, trying to recap in his mind what had just happened and plan his next move.
He'd never considered DeLoach might not be working alone. In retrospect, he should have. The man was old, very old, and probably incapable of digging up the graves himself. It stood to reason he needed an accomplice with a strong back.
Jake tried to move. The groan was involuntary.
"Should I hit him again, Mr. Arthur?" The woman asked.
"No, Zula Mae. He's had enough." DeLoach responded.
"But, Mr. Arthur. You heard him. He knows everything. We have to kill him."
"Nobody dies tonight, Zula Mae." DeLoach paused. "Are you responsible for sending that email? Did you really try to blackmail the President of the United States?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Arthur," Zula Mae said. "You said those paintings were worth millions of dollars but you're giving them away. I do all the digging and you get all the credit. I want something too. I read your translation of the journal and your genealogy study of the President. If you won't use it against her, I will. If I can't get anything from these paintings, then I can get something from her. She'll pay to keep me from telling the truth."
Jake felt his holster between his chest and the ground. It was empty. Then he remembered, his gun was in his hand when she struck him. He looked up at the woman. She was standing over him holding a shovel like a baseball bat ready to take another swing. Judging by her silhouette in the moonlight she was a few inches shorter than DeLoach but considerably thicker. There was something about their verbal exchanges that sounded intimate. Not like lovers, but companions. A familiarity with each other that led Jake to believe they'd known each other for years.
DeLoach stood next to her holding his gun.
"Put down the shovel, Zula Mae." DeLoach pointed the gun at Jake. "He won't be any trouble."
Zula Mae lowered the shovel.