Knights of the Golden Circle

  Knights of The Golden Circle

  A Rory Mack Steele Novel, Volume 9

  Eugene Lloyd MacRae

  Published by Eugene Lloyd MacRae, 2013.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE

  First edition. December 18, 2013.

  Copyright © 2013 Eugene Lloyd MacRae.

  ISBN: 978-1927767092

  Written by Eugene Lloyd MacRae.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

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  Further Reading: Box Set: Rory Mack Steele Thrillers Books 1-12

  Also By Eugene Lloyd MacRae

  Chapter 1

  THE YOUNG BOY worked feverishly to rub the graphite pencil across the paper. The strange carving in the bark of the beech tree slowly took shape across the paper. His tongue worked itself back and forth to each corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

  "I can't kill no kid," whispered the younger man.

  "If you don't, he's gonna find the treasure," said the older man tersely.

  "How do you know that? We don't even know where it is," the younger man said.

  "We ain't the ones who are supposed to know where it is, you idiot. We're sentinels..."

  "Oh yeah," the young man said in realization. Then he thought a bit as he watched the kid working his rubbing. "Does that make any sense? Shouldn't we know–?"

  The older man slapped the younger man on the back of the head, "Never mind that. If you're going to take care of your castle, you need to take care of that kid. You wanted to get more involved, didn't you? Play a bigger part in everything?"

  "Yeah. I'm proud to take my daddy's place...but–"

  "Then do it!"

  "Ain't this a job for a member of the military arm–?"

  "This is your task right now."

  "C'mon. Are you sure the kid can find it?"

  "Are you willing to take the chance? You want to have to answer to Vernon P.?" the older man said sternly.

  "No, that I don't want. But...it's a kid...maybe he'll only find a small cache...," the younger man reasoned.

  "He had that slicker didn't he?" the older man said. "We both saw him with it yesterday."

  The younger man nodded, rubbing the stubble on his day-old beard, "I wonder where he got it from? I've heard of them, but I ain't never actually seen one–"

  "I ain't never heard of anyone else with one before either," interrupted the older man forcefully. "We'll go find it after. But right now, he's back here to get more signs and we need to do our part for the old south. Just like our daddys and our grand-daddys did. Ain't that what you said you wanted at your daddy's funeral?"

  The younger man nodded, "You're right. You're always right. But I got a better idea. If I'm going to do my part, the kid just has to disappear. Just like the others, right? And I reckon that'll make Old Tuck happy."

  The older man's face lit up, "Yeah, you're right. I never thought about that. And when we explain to Old Tuck that we saw this kid with a slicker...and if we get him that slicker...that's gonna work even better for us. Two birds with one stone and all that."

  "Old Tuck always wants information like that," agreed the younger man.

  The older man slapped him on the back, "And he never forgets who gave him the information."

  The younger man nodded. Taking a deep breath, he slipped expertly through the trees towards the freckled faced youngster.

  Chapter 2

  GOLDEN, SOUTH CAROLINA

  RORY MACK STEELE sat sipping his early morning coffee in Martha's Diner. The place was full and noisy, the smell of bacon and eggs, waffles, toast, and coffee was full and rich and he loved the old-time feeling of this place. It fit perfectly with the small town he had glimpsed through the tall, stately trees before he had pulled into the parking lot. Rory was a private investigator in the family business, Highlander Investigative Services, with offices in both New York and Toronto, Canada. Having Canadian-American Dual Citizenship allowed Rory to work both sides of the border. He had recently finished a job in Atlanta, Georgia and was now on his way to his next assignment. But with Greenville, South Carolina only a fifty mile drive up I-85, and since he didn't have to meet the client until tomorrow morning, he decided to linger a little longer and enjoy the atmosphere. He looked around for his waitress to get a refill but he didn't see her. He could wait. Looking back out the window, he watched an elderly couple getting into a large motor home. He smiled at the antics of their golden retriever, wagging his tail hard and pushing between the two, apparently eager to get back on the road.

  "Want a little more coffee, hon?"

  Rory looked up to see a tall, white-haired waitress with crazy red glasses pouring him a refill. She had been working the other side of the restaurant when he had first come in.

  "Yeah, thanks," Rory said as he reached for the sugar.

  "You'll have to forgive Donna-Lou, she hasn't been the same since she lost her son," red glasses said.

  Rory poured some sugar onto a spoon and dropped it into his coffee. He assumed Donna-Lou had been the waitress who had served him. He poured a second spoonful and stirred, "What happened?"

  "Young Corry just up and disappeared about two months ago. Was on CNN for two full days. All kinds of news vans here and lots o' police. Then some big political scandal knocked it off the news before he could be found. He was all she had, poor thing."

  Rory tipped more cream into his coffee and stirred, "How old was he?"

  "Ten. And he was so sweet. Not one of those back-talking kids you see so often now. Never gave Donna-Lou an ounce of trouble or concern. That kid was off in the woods treasure hunting every single day, rain or shine. And once school was out for summer, that's all he did from sunup to sundown. Then one day he's gone. He just disappears." Red glasses shook her head sadly before turning and walking away to offer a refill to another customer.

  Rory sipped his coffee. A few minutes later he saw his waitress come back in from a door in the back. She was dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. Donna-Lou was a black haired beauty with a trim figure. He
imagined she must have had her son at a young age. He didn't think she was more than 26 or 27 years old. No wedding ring. He was all she had red glasses had said. His heart went out to her.

  RORY WALKED ACROSS the parking lot to his Jaguar XK-S. It was a nice, warm southern day that reminded you of those proverbial iced teas and mint juleps. Pulling out of the parking lot, he turned left onto the access road, skirted the edge of Golden and pulled back onto I-85. Rory turned the satellite radio on and set it for the local station to check for traffic. The local news finished off with weather and the traffic as Rory drove at the speed limit. Usually, he had a lead foot, but he wasn't in any hurry to barrel through a pleasant day.

  "Okay, this is Chet Calhoun. And we're back on with author and newspaper columnist Nora Jackson. Nora, you were talking about the statistics on missing persons...."

  "Right, Chet. Every day in the United States 2,300 people go missing. Every single day."

  "Every day! That's astounding," Chet said.

  "Yes, it is. It's hard to believe but true. Now we have to understand that most of those missing persons are adults. And they do include people who may have just run away from their old life for some reason or another without telling anyone. And there are also those who are involved in drugs, elderly people who wander away because of memory problems..."

  "So they're not all what we consider as stereotypical abduction cases of young'uns," Chet said.

  "Exactly," Jackson confirmed. "And most of the missing reports for youngsters are apparent abductions over custody battles, that kind of thing."

  Chet prodded his guest, "So what has your bee in a bonnet right now? I think that's how the FBI and our own Sheriff Luther Ponder and Circuit Court Judge Vernon P. Teague described your concerns...."

  Jackson was sarcastic in her correction of the title, "You mean the Honorable Vernon P. Teague,"

  Of course, I stand corrected," Calhoun chuckled. He was loving this.

  Jackson was bitter, "Both Sheriff Luther Ponder and the Honorable Vernon P. Teague are a disgrace to local law enforcement, that's all I can say. There's nothing honorable in either man."

  Rory reached over to switch to another station.

  "Consider this," Jackson said forcefully. "Only 100 missing child cases reported every year in the entire United States are true stereotypical abductions by strangers. Yet we have nearly that number here in the southern states alone this year!"

  Rory's hand froze in mid-air.

  "And we're only halfway through the year," Jackson continued. "Two-thirds of those reported missing are usually between the ages of 12 to 17. But Chet, we have 78 youngsters missing, boys and girls who are ages 10, 11 and 12 years of age."

  "I would say all those missing young'uns sounds like a cause for worry," Chet reasoned.

  "The local law doesn't seem to think so," Jackson said. "And again, this is not throughout the entire US that I'm talking about. These 78 children have disappeared mysteriously in the last six month in Tennessee, Mississippi, Virginia, the Carolinas –"

  Rory pulled over to the edge of the road.

  Chet's voice rose an octave, "And what has law-enforcement said about this? I know you've been talking to them Donna-Lou. What have they been saying about all this?"

  The disgust was evident in his guest's voice, "It's an anomaly is what they called it. A statistical anomaly."

  "Unbelievable," Chet said. Then Chet switched gears to that of an announcer, "Okay, folks. We have to go to break. We'll be right back after this message. Don't go away, you hear?"

  Rory's senses, honed from years of helping people in hundreds of situations as a private investigator, told him something was wrong. Rory thought about the waitress back at the diner. She had been heartbroken at losing her young son. He was one of the statistical anomalies the police were talking about. He considered going back and talking with her...but that didn't make any sense. What would he say? He leaned over and pressed a tab on his GPS screen, looking for the local radio station. He decided talking to this Nora-Jane Jackson would make more sense. She seemed to have a handle on what was going on. With the coordinates for the radio station entered, he let the woman with the mechanical voice lead him down the road.

  "MS. JACKSON?"

  The short, attractive brunette in the blue pantsuit stopped her sprint for the front doors of the radio station and looked back at the receptionist, "Yes?"

  The receptionist smiled broadly and pointed at Rory who was sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, "This gentleman was waiting to talk to you."

  Rory rose and approached Nora Jackson, extending his hand, "Hi, my name is Rory Mack Steele."

  "So?" She let his hand hang out there in the air.

  Rory felt like a scam artist under the scrutiny of someone who was extra cautious when meeting people. He lowered his hand, "I was hoping I could talk with you for a moment."

  "So talk," Jackson said curtly. "I'm heading for my car. I don't have time." She turned, took two steps and pushed open the front glass door, stepping outside without a look back to see if he was following behind her.

  Rory turned to the young receptionist, "You'd think we were married."

  The young receptionist smiled, "Well, you better hurry after her or you ain't getting any...."

  Rory raised an eyebrow.

  "...talk that is." The receptionist winked.

  Rory winked back and then hurried out the front door of the radio station, leaving the giggling receptionist behind. He jogged down the walkway, "Ms. Jackson, I was hoping to get some more information on those missing children I heard you talking about earlier."

  "Why? What's it to you?" Jackson said over her shoulder as she began walking across the parking lot. "Are your FBI bosses pissed at me again because I won't play nice and pretend they care about all those missing children?" Jackson extended her hand and pressed the key fob, unlocking a dark-blue Lincoln MKS luxury sedan just ahead.

  "I'm not with the FBI," Rory said as he finally got up with her.

  Jackson opened her car door and looked around at Rory, "You're not? You look the type. What's your interest in this?"

  "I look the type?" Rory said in amusement.

  "Yeah, tall and good-looking," she said sarcastically. "Look. I don't have time Mr....?"

  "Steele. I'm a private investigator with Highlander Investigative Services and –"

  Jackson threw her purse forcefully into the car and turned on Rory, her hands on her hips and anger on her lips, "Now look here Buster. These people don't need any more shysters promising things and taking their money. I've had enough of your kind trolling for information–"

  "I'm not after money –"

  "Right. But you do have expenses and you do have leads that will require cash incentives...blah, blah, blah. We've heard it all before, so beat it, pal!"

  Rory stood there in stunned silence as Jackson jumped into her car.

  In a moment, the tires on Nora Jackson's dark-blue Lincoln squealed, leaving a black trail of rubber behind as she left the parking lot in anger.

  Chapter 3

  "NORA-JANE IS RIGHT, YOU KNOW."

  Rory turned around to see a stocky man, carrying an old battered briefcase, walking across the parking lot behind him. "Pardon?"

  "I say, Nora-Jane is right," repeated the man. "She's from here, you know. That's her full name, Nora-Jane Jackson. She dropped the hyphenation thing when she went up to the big city in Atlanta, then New York itself some years ago and became a big-time journalist as plain Nora Jackson. But she's from here. She knows these people as well as anybody and she's right. Folks here are tired of opportunists showing up and trying to take advantage of a sad situation."

  Rory nodded his head. He could understand the situation. In his experience, there were always cons ready to pounce on every single opportunity to make a fast buck. And people in grief and desperate were always easy targets.

  The man kept walking as he eyed Rory. He approached a battered old Chevrolet Impala, pla
ced the old briefcase on the hood and then hitched his pants back up under his old checkered sports jacket. "Can I ask, what is your interest, friend?

  Rory just took a deep breath and let it out. Truth was he wasn't sure himself.

  "Just a hunch, huh?" the man said.

  Rory looked at the man and cocked his head.

  The man shook his head and smiled as he walked over to Rory, hitching his low pants up again. He stuck out his hand, "Chet Calhoun. I'm the local announcer, newsman, weatherman and jack of all trades for the radio station here. Even got it on the Internet thing now."

  Rory shook his hand, "Rory Mack Steele."

  "I've been interviewing people for a long, long time and I can tell when someone has something in his britches bothering him. Something more than a rash," Calhoun added with a chuckle.

  Rory smiled, "I'm not sure if it isn't just a rash this time. It's just...I was over at the diner and one of the waitresses was looking down in the dumps. One of the other ladies said she had lost her son–"

  "That would be Donna-Lou Haney and her son Corry," Chet said grimly. That's the kind of news report I hate to make."

  Rory nodded at the mention of the names. "Maybe just seeing the waitress, and the sadness in her face made it a little more personal. And then, when I was driving, I heard your interview with Ms. Jackson...."

  Chet nodded, "And something just didn't sound right. We all feel the same way. But the state troopers and the FBI don't seem to see it the same way. Neither does the local sheriff. But then, he doesn't do a single thing without the state troopers anyway. Sheriff in name only."

  Rory shook his head. "You would think with all those youngsters going missing..."

  "Tell me about it. I've been talking it up every chance I get. Done a number of shows on it. Interviewed people. But no one in authority has paid any mind past a quick look it seems," Chet said ruefully.

  Rory shook his head in disbelief.

  "Which is why I called Nora-Jane," Calhoun explained. "And when she told me she had already been looking into it for a possible newspaper article, I invited her down for the interview. Thought it would get things going again. She dug up all those stats...aw heck...who am I kidding? They ain't going to look into it much more." He started walking back to his Chevrolet Impala.