Larry steered his Honda Civic down a back road that ran parallel with Rock Creek Park and turned in to an isolated cemetery. It was a boneyard straight out of an old black-and-white horror movie, filled with mausoleums, tombstones, and weird statues. It was built on a slope that dipped down into the wilderness of the park, and Larry drove down the rutted, bumpy road to the furthest edge of the burial ground.
They stopped in front of an old, lichen-covered monument that read KNIGHT in bold letters.
“Holy moly, it’s a family crypt,” Riley said.
“Yes, but I don’t plan to be buried here,” Emerson said, getting out of the car. “I’m going to be stuffed and put on display in my parlor.”
“You’re joking this time, right?”
“Maybe.”
Emerson walked to the Knight memorial and knelt at the foot of a statue of a shrouded woman dressed in flowing robes, her face turned down in sorrow. Riley got out of the Civic and took a closer look at the statue. It was haunting and oddly erotic at the same time. A cold breeze rattled the leaves of a nearby oak tree, and Riley zipped her sweatshirt up to her neck.
“She’s beautiful,” Riley said, looking at the statue.
“Yes, that’s my great-great-grandfather’s mistress. Lamont senior commissioned this statue of her. He wanted it to be so beautiful that his wife would never visit his grave. That way, he said, he’d have peace in the hereafter even if he couldn’t have it in this life.”
“Maybe his wife would have been nicer to him if he didn’t cheat on her with this sad lady here.”
Emerson brushed some moss from the edge of a large flat piece of marble at the base of the monument. “I need to move this stone,” he said.
Larry took one end and Emerson took the other. After a few moments of straining and pulling they were able to inch the stone back and expose a metal ring. Emerson tugged on the ring and the base of the monument dropped out, revealing a small fissure just large enough for a man to pass through.
“Meet us at the designated spot,” Emerson said to Larry.
“I’ll be there,” Larry said. “You can count on me. And I’ll put everything back in place here before I leave.”
Emerson hung his rucksack on one shoulder, pulled a penlight out of his pocket, and pointed it at a dark stone staircase that disappeared under the monument. “Follow me.”
“Down?”
“Of course.”
“No way! Are you insane? God knows what’s down there. Worms and spiders and dead people.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like any of those things.”
“Pity. They’re all rather interesting.”
“Not to me,” Riley said. “I’m staying aboveground.”
“ ‘Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings.’ ”
“That’s Shakespeare, right?”
“So they would have you believe. My great-grandfather Lamont junior didn’t, however. He spent a good deal of the fortune he inherited trying to prove that Edward de Vere was the real author of those plays. That and alcoholism were Lamont junior’s main hobbies. He was an early version of what we would now call a conspiracy enthusiast. He believed, among other things, that the world was hollow and that the city of Atlantis still thrived there, controlled by the Freemasons who were infiltrating society and trying to take over the world.”
“In other words, he was a nut.”
“Perhaps. He also believed, against all rational thought—this was in 1910, mind you—that the government was going to prohibit alcohol consumption in all forty-six states. So he built this tunnel.”
“He was a bootlegger?”
“Not in the least. He merely wanted to maintain his supply. And to have an avenue of escape when the lizard people took over.”
“So this tunnel leads to your house?”
“Presumably. I’ve never actually used it. Care to find out? We’d be like urban explorers, only more subterranean.”
An odd choking sound escaped from his lips. Riley guessed it was a laugh.
“Is that you joking?” she asked.
“I have my lighter side.”
“Just warn me before you use it, okay? And why do you have to go to your house?”
“I have money there. And supplies. Since I’m fairly certain the house is being watched, we have to get in surreptitiously.”
“How about you go to the house and I wait here?”
“I’m afraid that would ruin my plan. The timing would be off. I would have to leave you behind, and you know what would happen then.”
“Rollo would find me and kill me?”
“Possibly, but I was referring to the fact that it’s beginning to rain and you would get wet.”
Riley looked up at the thick cloud cover. Yup, she thought, it was definitely beginning to rain. She pulled her sweatshirt hood over her head and narrowed her eyes at Emerson.
“You’d better know what you’re doing,” she said.
“Indeed,” Emerson said, descending into the stygian darkness of the underworld.
The tunnel was surprisingly large and in surprisingly good shape for a little-used secret passage. They walked rapidly along the smooth, dark surface toward an unseen end, their way lit only by Emerson’s little flashlight. Their footfalls echoed off the moist tunnel walls. The smell of damp earth clogged Riley’s throat.
Just keep going, she thought. It has to lead somewhere. She stepped on something that squeaked and scurried away. She put her hand to her heart and bit into her lower lip.
“Crap on a cracker,” she whispered.
“Such a colorful expression,” Emerson said. “Keep walking.”
“I’m going to get you for this,” Riley hissed at Emerson. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will be something horrible.”
“I shall look forward to it,” Emerson said. “Life is an adventure.” He paused for a beat. “Will it be sexual?”
Riley struggled to find her voice. “Why on earth would you think it would be sexual?”
“I don’t know,” Emerson said. “It just popped into my head.”
“Would you like it to be sexual?”
“I might,” Emerson said. “That would be interesting.”
“Crickey!” Riley said.
They reached the end of the tunnel and looked up at an overhead grate. Emerson pounded on it a few times and the grate popped free, showering bits of rust down on their upturned faces. They pulled themselves out, and Riley looked around in the dim light.
“Where are we?” she asked Emerson.
“In the basement of Mysterioso Manor. I recognize the Egyptian sarcophagus on the far wall.”
Riley’s eyes widened. “Is there a mummy in there?”
“If rumor is to be believed,” Emerson said. “I’ve been meaning to check but it will have to wait. Come along.”
Riley trailed after him up a flight of stairs, through a closed door, and along a vast hallway. They ran into Aunt Myra on the second floor.
“For goodness’ sakes,” Myra said. “This is a nice surprise. Have you had lunch? I could make sandwiches.”
“No time,” Emerson said. “We’re preparing to go off the grid. And you aren’t supposed to be here. I texted you and told you to go back to Harrisonburg and wait for word.”
“Good Lord, I don’t read those text things. They’re always Nigerian princes asking for money or some such.”
“Fascinating, but not at all relevant,” Emerson said, turning on his heel. “You’ve placed yourself in a dangerous situation. Everyone follow me.”
“He sounds just like his father when he gets that tone,” Myra said to Riley. “Authoritative. The Knight men have always been leaders. Of course, they were also philanderers and lunatics.”
“A mixed legacy,” Riley said, lengthening her stride to keep up with Emerson.
“Yes,” Myra said. “There’s a bit of scoundrel in the bloodline. The jury is still out on Emerson.”
Emerson pulled up at the end of the hall, where a narrow winding staircase led to the tower room. “I haven’t yet reached my full potential,” he said, looking back at Riley. “The Knights are late bloomers. It’s likely that in a few more years I’ll be a rutting bastard.” He motioned her through the door. “Be careful on the stairs.”
Riley was pretty sure this was Emerson having a sense of humor…but then maybe not.
The staircase ended at a small landing and a single closed door. Emerson opened the door and crossed to a large freestanding safe that looked to Riley as if it belonged in a mob movie. The room itself was a round turret with windows on three sides and a stunning view of D.C. and the surrounding park. With the Washington Monument and the Capitol off in the distance, it looked like a picture postcard. The furnishings were rustic Victorian. She could picture Mark Twain sitting at the rolltop desk, eyeing intruders into his lair with an expression of disapproval.
“This reminds me of my granddad’s office, but the view is much better,” Riley said.
“This was my father’s hideaway,” Emerson said, working the dial on the safe.
“His hideaway from what?”
“My stepmother,” Emerson said.
The lock clicked and Emerson swung the door open and removed a large duffel bag.
“What’s in the bag?” Riley asked.
“Money,” Emerson said. “Rainy-day money. Plus some off-the-grid essentials.”
“Where are we going?”
“ ‘Over the mountains of the moon,’ ” Emerson said.
“The obscure literary quotes are getting old,” Riley said.
“It’s Edgar Allan Poe. ‘Eldorado.’ I’ve been thinking about Poe a lot lately. ‘The Gold-Bug,’ of course. And The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, where the hero descends into the Hollow Earth. That’s rather ironic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, ironic.”
As if her life wasn’t bad enough she had to be saddled with Emerson Knight, Riley thought.
“It’s ‘The Purloined Letter’ that I keep coming back to,” Emerson said. “You remember the story.”
“Remind me. Quickly.”
“Auguste Dupin, the very first fictional detective—a lot more impressive that that poser Sherlock Holmes—is tasked to find an incriminating letter. The room has been searched thoroughly but no letter has been found. Do you know where he finds it?”
“Right out in the open. Stuck on a mantel.”
Emerson looked impressed. “You’ve read it?”
“My father was a county sheriff. All us kids read it.”
“It’s been staring us right in the face. The Grunwalds and McCabe. They’ve been stealing gold. Perhaps they’ve been stealing it for years. But no one noticed. Until I came along.”
“Until we came along,” Riley said.
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it, but okay. The point is, why have they been stealing the gold? They’re already rich. They couldn’t spend the money they already have in a hundred lifetimes. Why take this kind of risk?”
Riley shrugged. “Greed. Arrogance. Maybe it’s just a game to them.”
“No. It’s got to be more than a game. They’ve diligently and painstakingly infiltrated themselves into the highest levels of our government. And, they’re not limiting themselves to stealing from the Blane-Grunwald vault. They’re stealing from the Federal Reserve, and the Chairman of the Fed is complicit.”
“I met him in person when they were questioning me about you. He’s taking orders from Werner. He’s just one of their lapdogs, like Rollo.”
“Interesting,” Emerson said. “So they control both the world’s gold supply and the Federal Reserve. They’re trying to take control of the United States government.”
“That’s just a conspiracy theory,” Riley said. “Our financial system isn’t even based on gold anymore. It hasn’t been since the seventies.”
“Then what is it based on? It’s based on trust. Belief in the United States government.” He removed a dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s printed right on all our money. Federal Reserve Note. It’s only worth a dollar because the government says it is. You need to believe that the government will protect its value. Otherwise, it’s just a worthless piece of paper. But what if that government responsible for safeguarding the money supply is exposed as incompetent? Or worse, what if the U.S. government is the one doing the stealing? Our currency would plunge overnight. It would be total and devastating financial chaos on a global scale.”
Emerson’s iPad was beeping inside his rucksack. He pulled it out, tapped in his security code, and the floor plans for Mysterioso Manor appeared on the screen.
“The flashing red dots indicate where the security has been breeched,” Emerson said.
“There are a lot of them,” Riley said. “There are flashing dots all over the place.”
“Yes,” Emerson said. “We have visitors.”