Crown of Serpents Read Online Free PDF Page B

tribe? The problem was that Jake’s own Seneca Indian ancestors and their neighboring Cayuga tribe had held the white deer herd sacred as far back as the founding of the Iroquois Confederacy. From the legends he learned as a child, he knew a white deer was a symbol of protecting the peace between the original five tribal nations that formed the confederacy. On several occasions when he was much older and driving past the Depot with his beloved Uncle Joe, Jake had even caught a rare glimpse of the white deer — behind the perimeter fencing on Route 96A along the west side of the base. Their natural beauty was simply astounding. But because of their stature, they were also considered an elite trophy in the world of sport hunting.
    What Jake was hearing about their fate disturbed him. Speculation held that if the land was sold, the new owner could charge an admission fee to hunt the white deer on his private 8,000-acre wildlife preserve. The owner could market it as containing the best stock in the world regardless of the herd’s historical significance or its sacred roots.
    Jake shook his head. He didn’t know the answer. There were too many variables. Ultimately, these local political issues were out of his control. He was just an outside observer. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t solve all of the world’s problems. Heck, serving as the world’s police force in the U.S. Army taught him that. Trying to save a fringe deer herd in a remote rural county was best left to someone else.
    It wasn’t his mission.
    He looked down at his watch. “7:20. Good.” This side escapade he had gotten himself into still allowed him time to issue his police statement, get his uniform cleaned, and not miss his appointment in Rochester for his afternoon lecture at the Army’s 98th Division Headquarters. But first he wanted to check out something most interesting to him before packing up — the Indian gravesite. He salivated at what contents might be inside.
    Walking toward the mound, he noticed a group of emergency officials already huddled together. They included an African-American State Trooper in his gray uniform and ten-gallon Stetson hat, and two Seneca County sheriff’s deputies — one older and bigger, one obviously a young rookie and much skinnier — both in their dark blue uniforms and matching caps. The female state police investigator stood there too, speaking and pointing to the opening of the grave. Jake quietly approached the group from behind and leaned against a tree to listen in. The older deputy sheriff, a large-boned, pot-bellied, rat-faced man smoking a cigarette, turned as Jake’s presence was felt. He wore a scowl on his face. Pulling the butt from his lips, he exhaled and folded his arms across his chest, nodding Jake a greeting. Jake returned the gesture noticing the deputy’s nametag as Wyzinski.
    What Jake overheard from the group of cops was that the victim had apparently stepped into the Indian grave by mere accident as he had claimed over 9-1-1, but then proceeded to ransack it — as evident by the silver broach Jake had found on his body. The investigator concluded, based on footprints, that after the theft occurred when the victim was backing out, he had fallen right through some loose shale and into the limestone shaft. He held on long enough to call 9-1-1 and for them to get his GPS coordinates, but then lost his grip and plunged in. To his death. Or as the investigator put it, blunt force trauma to the head.
    Deputy Wyzinski immediately spoke up. “Good riddance. The guy was a piece of dogshit anyway.” He tossed his butt on the ground and stomped it out. Jake noticed the investigator flinch, her eyes glaring at the cigarette butt.
    The big black State Trooper added a remark. “Chalk this one up as a praiseworthy accidental death.” He smiled with bleached teeth.
    The other deputy, the pencil thin mustached young man, chimed in too. “What was he drinking? Old Milwaukee? What’d they