The Jefferson Key

CASSIOPEIA HAD ADVANCED TOO FAR.

She was exposed, and knew it.

She darted right, used the hallway for protection, then called out, “Cotton, where are you?”

He lowered his gun.

“In here,” he said.

“Better for you to come out here,” she called out.

He came to his feet and stepped from the parlor. Cassiopeia appeared from the smoke to his left.

“That was close,” he said.

He saw in her eyes that she agreed.

“What happened in here?”

“I found the source of all our trouble.”

A new sound invaded the silence. A low rhythmic thump of deep bass tones beating air. Approaching.

Helicopter.

WYATT CRADLED THE WHEEL IN HIS ARMS, CAREFUL NOT TO damage it. A couple of glances back and he saw no one following him. He disappeared into the trees and eased down an incline toward the field.

A chopper swooped in from the west, clearing the trees lining the field, and settled on the grass.

He jumped in the open cabin door.

MALONE AND CASSIOPEIA STEPPED OUTSIDE ONTO THE EAST portico and saw a helicopter landing about a quarter mile away.

Way too far to do anything about it.

After only a minute below the trees, the rotors’ thump increased and the chopper climbed back into the morning sky, heading west.

Malone realized that without the wheel there was no way to know what Andrew Jackson had done. And since only one existed, the cipher’s solution had just flown away.

“We can track that thing, can’t we?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Not quick enough. He’ll set down somewhere not far away and drop his passenger off.”

“The person who shot at me?”

He nodded.

The estate manager rushed up to where they stood, along with Edwin Davis. Malone stepped back inside and headed straight for Jefferson’s cabinet.

The others followed.

He found the table where an empty glass cover sat.

“Those windows outside,” the manager said, “were 19th-century glass. The frames were original to Jefferson’s time. Irreplaceable.”

“This isn’t a World Heritage Site, is it?” he asked, trying lighten the tension.

“Actually, it has been since 1987.”

He smiled. Stephanie would love that one. How many of those had he damaged? Four? Five?

He heard windows being opened throughout the house and saw the smoke dissipating. A new face appeared. A middle-aged woman with dark red hair and freckled skin. She was introduced as the senior curator, in charge of the estate’s artifacts. She was visibly upset at the site of the missing wheel.

“It’s the only one in the world,” she said.

“Who was here?” Edwin Davis asked him.

“An old friend, who apparently holds a grudge.”

He motioned for Davis and Cassiopeia to walk with him toward the library while the curator and the estate manager talked in the cabinet. He told them about Jonathan Wyatt, then said, “Last I saw him was eight years ago, at the admin hearing when he was fired.”

Davis immediately withdrew his phone, placed a call, listened a few moments, then hung up.

“He’s a contract agent now,” Davis said. “Works for hire. Lives in Florida.”

Malone thought back to the coded message from the sheet Jackson had written. Twenty-six letters, five symbols.