The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Sutherland’s internal alarm clock went off at four o’clock in the morning. She switched on the light next to the bed and noticed her newly-laundered jeans, shirt, and underwear stacked on a chair. She dressed and went out to the patio. The temperature had dropped drastically during the night, and she could see her breath. The stars were like sapphires in black velvet. She focused on the North Star. Polaris seemed to beckon.

She went back inside, grabbed her computer bag and went to the kitchen where she wrote a long note thanking the McHughs and promising to keep in touch. She put on her leather jacket, wheeled the motorcycle out of the car port, but didn’t start the engine until she was a hundred feet from the house. She headed north on the empty highway. The sun was coming up as she passed through the outskirts of Tucson.

As she rode along, she formed a plan of sorts to lose herself in Utah’s vast back country, but she had an epiphany in the Navajo town of Chinle where she stopped to buy the makings for a picnic. She rode a few miles to Canyon de Chelly, pulled into the parking lot and walked out onto a bluff that overlooked the red sandstone walls of the ancient canyon.

She sat with her feet dangling over a ledge and munched contentedly on a mountainous cold-cut sandwich, gazing off at the 800-foot tall column known as Spider Rock. Not far from where she sat, the Indian fighter Kit Carson had cornered the Navajos at the blind end of the canyon, and then he drove the ones he didn’t kill from their land. There was a lesson to be learned. No matter how fast and how far you run, you have to keep moving or you’ll eventually be cornered.

If she didn’t fight, she could end up with her back to the wall like the unfortunate Navajo.

She finished lunch, got on her motorcycle and headed north to Route 66, riding past the historic road’s commercial hodge-podge until she stopped at a motel with units built in the shape of concrete wigwams. A fifties vintage car sat in front of each unit. Her kind of place. After she registered, she went out for a supply of chips and Coke, then set up her computer in the circular bedroom. No danger of being cornered here.

She wrote an account of the last few days, in case the next attempt on her life was successful and sent the file to Hawkins. At the end she wrote the words: PLS CALL.

Sutherland backed up the file using an online data storage service, and pondered where she should point her investigation. It was too dangerous to snoop around Arrowhead. After a moment of thought, she opened the Prester John folder, clicked on the TREASURE file, and went down the index until she came to a name. Hiram Kurtz.

The Kurtz history was fairly linear. Originally from Minnesota, he had studied to be an accountant, but drifted into mining when he learned he had a knack for wringing wealth out of the earth. Photos of Kurtz in the heyday of his mining career showed him with a broad, determined face, high chiseled cheek bones and intelligent eyes outlined by circular-framed wire rim glasses.

An article from the society pages described his lavish wedding to a young and beautiful debutant named Priscilla Knudson. She came from an old New York family that had made scads of money at the Wall Street end of the mining industry. He began to spend less time near his mines in Colorado and more at the house he built for his new bride. Later photos showed his Hudson River mansion, and Kurtz and his wife with a young boy whose chubby face blended the features of his parents. They traveled abroad on trips that Kurtz explained later as triggering his interest in archaeology.

In a later article there was a reference to Kurtz’s late wife, which Sutherland followed to an obituary, saying Mrs. Kurtz had died giving birth to a second child, a daughter, who did not survive much longer than her mother.

The loss may have been the reason he threw himself into exploration, because after his wife died, he built a yacht to carry him to remote places and called it the Sweet Priscilla. It was this ship that carried him on his quest for Prester John’s treasure.

The story of the treasure hunt seemed straightforward. Eccentric mining tycoon bankrolls an archaeological expedition. Nobody hears from the expedition for months. Kurtz eventually emerges from the wilderness, only for his expedition team to perish in a shipwreck during the return journey. After that, Kurtz goes home, apparently having accomplished nothing.

Sutherland compared the earlier photos of Kurtz with one taken after his Afghan expedition. The difference in his appearance was striking. The healthy-looking middle-aged man with the confident expression had turned into a thin, hollow-cheeked caricature of himself. His eyes were vacant and staring, and maybe just a little mad.

She wasn’t surprised when she came across his obituary, dated a year after the expedition returned, saying he had died in Denver. With the loss of his archaeological staff at sea, Kurtz would have been the only one left with firsthand knowledge of what, if anything, the expedition had found. The secret died with him.

Sutherland sat back and gazed out the window at the rusting old Ford outside her wigwam. Something was odd about Kurtz’s demise. He looked to be at death’s door when he got back from Afghanistan. But he didn’t stay in his comfortable riverside mansion, close to the health care available in New York City. Instead, he had hopped onto his private railroad car and headed west.

The last story she found on Kurtz was written by a reporter who had ambushed him in Denver. The headline writer got in one final jab at the ailing tycoon before Kurtz disappeared into obscurity.

The article reported that when asked if he regretted squandering the lives of his expedition on a fruitless quest to find Amazons, Kurtz had answered that his quest had not been to look for Amazons — that had never been anything more than a line to amuse the media vultures — nor had his expedition been fruitless.

Sutherland pondered the wording of his last statement. Why not say he was going to give a good accounting of himself. Why give himself a good accounting? A good accounting of what? And what did he mean when he said the expedition had found knowledge? Kurtz was hiding something. She entertained the possibility that he had found the treasure, which meant that Hawkins and his friends were on a wild-goose chase. But if so, what happened to it?

She returned to his obituary and found the name of his son in the list of survivors. After a quick Google search she learned that Henry Knudson Kurtz had been a drunken playboy who had inherited his father’s mining company and subsequently run it into the ground. In one of his sober moments, he fathered a son who was named after his father, and he died at the age of thirty-eight of undetermined causes.

Sutherland did another search, typing in the name Henry Knudson Kurtz Junior. She was unprepared for the avalanche of results. Kurtz Junior was mentioned in hundreds of references, mostly unfavorable, as the leader of a paramilitary group named the Southwest Constitutional Militia.

Kurtz had been born in New York, studied law at an obscure southern college she had never heard of, was drafted into the army and served in a legal post in Vietnam. After his discharge, Kurtz tried to get into the FBI but his credentials were too thin. He started a one-man law practice in Denver that handled mostly cases of conspiracy and gun charges. The experience apparently convinced him the government was willing to override the Constitution to pursue its illegal aims.

He became adjutant general and legal counselor for an umbrella group that represented militias nationally and formed his own militia. On the website for his organization there was a photo of General Kurtz in a camouflage uniform, an automatic rifle cradled in his arms.

He had inherited the high cheekbones of his grandfather, but his face was narrower, and it was as creased as a piece of beef jerky. His mouth was a straight, thin line drawn across his prominent jaw. The caption described him as militia commander, and he had combined his first and last names, Hank and Kurtz, into a short hard version. Hak. Sounds like something a cat does with a fur ball, Sutherland thought.

Hak Kurtz’s declaration of the militia’s purpose was a long, rambling anti-government diatribe against the elites who were conspiring to enslave the U.S. by taking away the guns and the rights of the people. The website photos showed armed men and women in combat outfits going through training at an undisclosed site in Colorado.

Sutherland would love to see the expression on Matt’s face when he learned that this dangerous nut case might hold the key to the Prester John treasure. Even better would be his surprise if she tracked down the treasure. It was a measure of her mental state that she found it perfectly reasonable to even consider this.

The question was how to approach Kurtz. She went over old news clips and studied maps of the original Kurtz mine holdings. The more productive mines had been sold off to a big company, but Kurtz’s son had held onto the original, non-producing ones around Ouray, Colorado. She figured that’d be a good place for a militia. If she started early the next day, she could easily make Durango. Ouray was a relatively short drive through the mountains from there. What then? Go right up to the door and say she was looking for a lost treasure? Maybe she could figure something out on the ride.

She shut down her computer, slipped it into its case and left her wigwam to search for a GPS, more tortilla chips and Coke. She would head for Ouray in the morning.