The Shadow of Isis
Joel S. Zarley
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Purple Palm Media
Discover other titles by Joel S. Zarley at Smashwords.com
eBook Publication for Training
Chapter 1
Grand Canyon, Arizona (March 1909)
The sun beat down without mercy on the small wooden boat as it slowly navigated through the Colorado River. It was technically still late Winter, yet it already felt to Kincaid like the heat of July. He looked up at the four thousand feet of sheer cliff face surrounding him. He was not positive, but he thought he could see snow coating the rim of the canyon nearly one mile above him. His eyes returned to the river, and the delicate navigation he must perform to avoid crashing onto one of the many rocks that lay in the rushing water in front of him.
He had started his journey on the water in the Green River near Vernal, Utah. Once in the Green River he journeyed slowly southward until he met the confluence of the Colorado. From there he headed southwest, until he was deep with the canyon. Gerald Edward (known as G.E. by most acquaintances) Kincaid had lost track of exactly how long he had been on this river journey, but he knew that the time measured in weeks at this point. Early in the journey he thought he might freeze to death, but now heat and sun caused him discomfort.
He had not intended to begin an epic journey down the river and into the Grand Canyon. But, then again, he had never intended to find himself in Vernal either. He had run off to one of the few towns in Utah not founded and controlled by the Mormons, after an unfortunate business deal with the church in Salt Lake City had gone south. Despite the calm and polite demeanor of the Mormons, Kincaid knew that they did not take well to being cheated in business. Technically, Kincaid believed he hadn’t actually cheated the Mormons—sometimes a deal just goes bad and people lose their investment. Still, he thought it valuable to his own well being if he put as much distance between himself and The Great Salt Lake as possible.
He spent just a few days in Vernal. Despite the abundance of saloons and friendly women, he knew that his options were limited there. He ended up winning a boat in a crooked poker game, and thought it best to take his new bounty and flow out of town with the river.
Calling his winning a “boat” might be an overly generous description. It was nearly twenty feet long, and about eight feet wide, and constructed entirely from wood. (Of which, about one third had the beginnings of pretty severe wood rot.) There was a small cabin built into the back third of the craft that was just large enough for a cot and a small stove. Kincaid thought it looked like a shack hastily built on a poorly constructed raft.
But, it would get him out of town, and that is all Kincaid cared about right now. He had heard rumors about recent gold discoveries in the Grand Canyon, and thought this sounded like as good of a plan as any. Maybe this would finally be the venture that paid off for him. God knows he was due. It seemed like no matter where he went, or what he did, things never worked out the way he planned. Just like the latest experience with the Mormons…
It never quite seemed fair. Even the times when he was playing by the rules and completely legal, he would still end up getting screwed on a deal. It didn’t seem like the right kind of life for the first white child ever born in Idaho…
He smiled to himself when he thought of that. Actually, he wasn’t even sure he was the first white child in Idaho. In fact, he knew it was pretty damn well impossible. But, that is what his daddy always told him—him and everyone else that would listen. Kincaid senior found early on that the fictional story of his son’s birth was always worth a free drink or two.
Of course, the man he called his daddy really wasn’t. William Kincaid was Gerald’s mother’s second husband. His real daddy had died in a Union prison during the war between the states. He had been found guilty of treason for supplying aid and comfort to the enemy. Technically, he had sold aid and comfort to the enemy, but that fact had held a very fine shade of difference for Mr. Lincoln’s government.
Gerald had not been quite two years old when his biological father died, and his mother married Kincaid not quite a month later. His stepfather had always been good to him; treating him like he was his own son. He had never formally adopted the boy, but had given him his name anyway. Kincaid had been an alcoholic and a con man, but he had never raised a hand to Gerald or his mother. After his mother died of the consumption when he was twelve, his stepfather never even once considered abandoning the boy.
G.E. wasn’t sure when the elder Kincaid came up with the story about him being the first white child born in Idaho, but he told it from the time the young boy could remember. After a while, Gerald began believing it himself and he continued the tradition. And the free drinks that went with it.
At almost 47 years of age, he was now the same age as his stepfather when he died, and nearly five years older than his birth father. He had promised himself that he would never die rotting in jail like his father. He might drink himself to death like daddy Willy (as he had affectionately called his stepfather), but he would never die as another man’s prisoner. That’s why he always kept moving; always just a few days ahead of whatever trouble he had caused most recently.
The rapids cleared, and Kincaid reached a rather calm pool in the river. He sat down on the hard wooden deck of the boat and wiped his sweaty brow. He put his hand inside his jacket, and felt the cool metal of his flask. It was nearly empty, but it would have to do for now. He had some more whiskey packed away in the cabin, and he could retrieve it when he stopped for the night.
He leaned his head back and took a deep swig from his flask. As he looked up, he saw a bright flash several hundred feet up from the canyon floor. He put the flask down and stared up at the cliff face, convinced the whiskey, the sun, and his mind were playing tricks on him. He stared for several minutes, and just when he was convinced it was nothing, he saw the flash again. G.E. Kincaid was not an educated man, but he knew a few things about the world. And one of the things he knew was that valuable things tended to shine.
He guided the boat over to a wide sandy area on the bank of the river. He hopped off and grabbed the front end of the boat and pulled it as far as he could onto the river bank. The last thing he needed was to lose his only means of transportation to this wretched river.
He found a small telescope packed away in one of the boxes in the boat’s cabin, and used it to peer into the direction where he saw the glint of light. The combination of the poor quality of the spyglass and the glare of the sun made it difficult to see well, but he could make out what looked to be an opening in the cliff face. It appeared to be a cave, but the opening seemed almost purposeful; more of an arched doorway than some naturally occurring hole.
It looked like it would be a steep climb up to the cave opening. His eyes scanned the area near the bottom of the canyon and noticed that there were a series of setbacks in the rocks that meandered up toward the cave. While not exactly a trail, it would none-the-less provide a path to his desired destination without requiring him to scale the face of the cliff walls.
He grabbed a canteen of water, a lantern, a pickaxe and a small length of rope. Not exactly mountain climbing equipment, but it was the best he had and it would have to do. He put on an extra shirt over his current one to help protect him from any jagged rocks he may encounter, and he set off on his quest.
Over the next two hours he scaled the steep path. At a few points in the journey the ledge he was following narrowed to just a few inches wide. During these times he would flatten his chest against the cliff as tightly as possible, and hugging the wall inch himself slowly along the path. Several times he was grateful for the fact that he did not possess a greater than normal fear of heights. Still, he consciously tried not to look down at the river flowing hundreds of feet below him.
Finally, he made it to a ledge about one hundred feet wide by twenty feet deep. He had no way of actually measuring, but he figured this ledge must be at least five to six hundred feet above the canyon floor. A large arched passage lay at the deepest part of the ledge, leading into the cliff wall. It appeared much larger at this vantage point than it had from river level. From here, he guessed that the arched entry was at least twenty feet tall, and about eight feet wide.
He lit his lantern and peered into the entry way. He could only see a few feet inside, but there appeared to be some sort of walkway that sloped downward into the cave. He swallowed hard and looked around him.
“Well, shit, G.E.,” he said to himself. “The gold ain’t gonna come find you.”
He slowly began walking into the cave. Once inside the archway, the interior opened into a much larger room. The light from the lantern did not travel too far, but he could tell that the interior space was massive. Instead of traveling straight in and deeper into the cavern, he decided to find the side walls and work his way around from the outside edges. That would make it easier to systematically sweep the room searching for valuables. It would also allow him to retrace his steps along to the wall to find his way out quickly, if for some reason that should become necessary.
Even with the lantern, he only had about ten feet of visibility in any direction. Starting from the entry, he began heading left staying close to the front wall at all times. He began to count out the paces that he had walked. When he reached one hundred and sixty two paces, he saw the first corner of the room. He directed the lantern to the parallel wall, and saw an image painted in red:
He was not familiar with the symbol, but figured if someone had gone to all the trouble of getting up here to paint it on a wall, it must be important. He thought it resembled an odd shaped letter X.
“X marks the spot, I guess,” he said out loud, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He was startled by the reverberating echo throughout the cavernous space. “Christ,” he said in a now near whisper.
He continued to slowly move his way around the edges of the room. He was about twenty feet from the painted image on the wall when he encountered gold for the first time. But, it was not gold like he expected. Instead of finding a few nuggets embedded into a wall, he stumbled upon an gold figure that was a full head taller than himself.
He gasped at first, thinking that he had encountered another person in this dark cave. Then, he realized what he was actually seeing. It was a statue in the shape of a person, but made entirely out of gold.
He looks like a damn Oriental, Kincaid thought to himself.
His mind spun with the possibilities. His first thought was how much it must be worth. His second thought was how much it must weigh, and how would he ever get it out of the canyon?
He figured he could worry about those details later—right now he was concerned with what other treasures might await him. And, there were a considerable number of other treasures. He found multiple large gold statues like the first one he found, as well as smaller versions ranging from several inches to a few feet high. He also found small jewelry-like pieces made of gold and silver and encrusted with jewels.
G.E. Kincaid felt like pinching himself to make sure he was not dreaming; or even worse—had crashed his boat against some rocks in the river, hit his head, and was imagining this whole scene. But, it was real. He had finally found the treasure that had eluded him all of his life. Gerald Edward Kincaid was finally going to have the life he deserved.
He was examining strange, writing-like markings on yet another gold statue when he heard a noise. It was very faint at first, but it slowly grew in volume. It was the sound of voices—he was sure of that. He could not understand what the voices were saying, since they seemed to be in some strange language he had never heard before. But after a few moments he was positive that’s what he was hearing—coming from even deeper within the cavern. He felt the holster around his waist and realized for the first time that he had left his revolver on the boat.
Like most men who had spent the better part of their lives getting caught being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Kincaid’s first reaction was to run. However, he kept his wits about him long enough to pocket several pieces of the gem encrusted jewelry, and one of the very small gold statues. He extinguished the lantern, and moved quickly as he followed the side wall back to the entrance of the cave.
The climb up to the ledge holding the cave had taken him nearly two hours, but he made the trip back down in about one-fourth that time. Not only was gravity working for him on the return trip, he was also feeding off the adrenalin of a man who feared he had stumbled into a situation way above his head.
He returned to the river bank in a near run, threw the items he carried with him onto the boat deck, and pushed the craft into the river. He jumped onto the boat at the last moment as the current pulled it into the stream.
He did not even notice that he had dropped his daddy’s flask as he scurried onto the boat.
G.E. Kincaid had been drunk for the better part of two weeks.
After barely escaping the rapids of the river with his life, Kincaid abandoned the boat nearly immediately after getting out of the canyon. It was not that big of a loss—the boat had sustained quite a bit of damage during the journey, and probably would have never seen another voyage anyway.
After that, Kincaid had made his way down to Phoenix where he attempted to placate himself with whiskey and easy women.
Kincaid found that if he was drunk enough, he wouldn’t have the dreams. Every night when he slept he would hear those same voices from the cavern. And, while he could never quite remember their message the next morning, he knew in his heart the things they told him were not pleasant.
As unpleasant as the dreams were, the thought that he had abandoned what could have been millions of dollars in treasure was even more haunting. He had tried to convince himself that maybe he had imagined the cave—that he hadn’t really seen those things. But then, he would pull one of the small pieces from the stash he kept carefully hidden, and he knew that it was true. And, he feared that the thoughts of what he had lost would always torture him.
During those weeks he thought a lot about going back to retrieve the treasure. However, he realized there were two significant problems with that plan. First, the sheer volume of the treasure and its inconvenient position mid-way up the canyon would make it almost impossible to move. Secondly, he realized that he did not really remember the location of the treasure; he had been off one of many tributaries of the Colorado River when he stumbled upon the site. He had no idea how to return there.
The thoughts of the cavern and the treasure were preoccupying his almost every thought. So, it was probably no surprise that under the fog of over a fifth of bourbon he decided to unburden himself.
Sitting in a bar on Central Avenue in downtown Phoenix he met a young man named Davis Evers. Evers was a young reporter with the Phoenix Gazette, one of the major daily newspapers serving the city. Evers was young and ambitious, but so far had been unsuccessful in distinguishing himself with the big scoop. That all changed the night he met G.E. Kincaid.
Kincaid could not remember later how he started telling Evers about his discovery in the Grand Canyon; or for that matter, how he even began talking to him at all. But soon, he had told him the entire story.
Of course, Evers had first thought the story was just the ramblings of an old drunk. But then, Kincaid had shown him the proof—the items he had taken from the cavern in the canyon. He had talked the old man into letting him take one of the smaller items to have it looked at by a history professor he consulted on stories at the Tempe Normal School. (Which many years later would be renamed Arizona State University.) He promised Kincaid he would return it after his professor friend had evaluated it.
Evers found Kincaid sitting in the same bar a few nights later, and told him that his professor friend had declared the article brought to him was at least three thousand years old, and was most likely Egyptian in origin. The professor was going to contact a former colleague at the Smithsonian Institution about a potential expedition.
Kincaid was upset that someone else might be trying to lay claim to his treasure. But, Evers convinced him that if he allowed him to print a story about the discovery, clearly crediting him with the find, he would be publicly protecting his rights to it.
A few days later, on April 5, 1909, the story ran on the front page of the Phoenix Gazette with the headline:
EXPLORATIONS IN GRAND CANYON
Mysteries of Immense Rich Cavern being brought to light
Jordan is enthused
Remarkable finds indicate ancient people migrated from Orient
Kincaid was quoted quite extensively in the article, which described his find of the cavern in vivid—if not somewhat exaggerated—detail. It mentioned his trip down the Green River, but failed to mention the recent unfortunate incident with the Mormons. He was also very pleased that the article described him as the “first white child born in Idaho.” Daddy Willy would have been very proud. Overall, Kincaid came across as quite the heroic explorer.
The article also talked about an upcoming expedition by an archeologist from the Smithsonian named S.A. Jordan. Professor Jordan promised a full accounting of the contents of mysterious cavern. The majority of the treasure would eventually be displayed in the collections of the Smithsonian, but Evers had convinced Kincaid that he would be line for a handsome finder’s fee. It would easily be enough money for him to live the rest of his life in comfort.
Things were looking up for G.E. Kincaid. He finally believed he was going to have the life he always believed he deserved. That was until late one night nearly two weeks after the Gazette story ran.
He had been asleep (or more accurately, passed out) in the rooming house he had been staying in since arriving in Phoenix. He startled to consciousness as his room door was kicked open. He sat up in bed to see a small group of Army officers, weapons drawn, standing inside his door.
“Mr. Kincaid? Mr. G.E. Kincaid?” one of the officers said.
“Ye-ye-yes,” he stammered in return.
“Sir, we have a warrant for your arrest issued by Secretary of War Dickinson. We have orders to take you with us immediately.”
Kincaid could not believe his ears; this made absolutely no sense to him. He tried to question the men as to why they were taking him, but after the brief explanation, they refused to speak any more. He tried to bolt for the door to escape, but was met with the butt of a shotgun to the back of his head.
After that he was handcuffed, and had a hood placed over his head. He was placed on a train with his captors, where they traveled all night and most of the rest of the next day. Finally, he was led off the train and into a cool, dank building. The hood was finally removed when he was placed in the prison cell.
He was in solitary confinement and completely alone except for the few minutes three times a day when his captors would bring him food and water. He only left the cell once a week to be taken to the shower room. For weeks he begged for some sort of explanation, but would receive nothing but silence. Eventually, he gave up even asking.
He lost complete track of time, and was convinced he was going mad. He found it harder and harder to breathe in the damp cell, and would wake up in a panic convinced he was drowning. He knew that he would not be able to take this much longer.
After an entire life promising himself that he would never allow himself to die in prison like his father, on October 1, 1909 G.E. Kincaid did precisely that.
Chapter 2
Grand Canyon, Arizona (Early April, Current Day)
The one man kayak slipped through the rapid with relative ease; compared to the last few he had navigated this was nothing—maybe a class three at best.
He had been kayaking, rafting, and sailing nearly his entire life. It was one advantage of having a father who was career military—they moved around a lot and he got exposed to a lot of different skills.
Mark Newman had left his campsite near the Phantom Ranch a few hours earlier. He had risen early, and left with the first full light of dawn. He had successfully fought the temptation to leave even earlier. Facing this river in any amount of darkness would have been a suicide wish.
He was in his third day on the Colorado, and he was ready for this part of the journey to be over. Not that he was unhappy to be here; he had been planning this trip for a long time. He had been submitting applications into the lottery to win one of the few permits for solo rafting through the Grand Canyon for the past three years. He only happened to get the permit this year because there had been a cancellation, and his name had been pulled from the waiting list.
Ideally, he would have made this trip in the Summer when the weather would have been more predictable. But, early Spring was better than no time at all. The one advantage to making this trip in April is that the river’s tributaries were full from the melt of the Winter’s snow pack.
He had not followed the normal route of rafters and kayakers exploring the Colorado River through the canyon. Of course, his reason for being here was significantly different than most tourists as well. While others came for the beauty of the river and the canyon, he was here for a much bigger purpose. He was here to find evidence of one of the world’s greatest anthropological mysteries.
He had begun his river journey in the Little Colorado River in the heart of the Navajo Nation. He had started there for two primary reasons. First, because it allowed the easiest entry into the canyon without putting up with the throngs of tourists; but secondly because it gave him the opportunity to get the last bit of information he needed. He had spent the final night before beginning this journey on the Hopi Reservation, in the company of one of the wisest women he had ever met.
After leaving camp this morning, he had abandoned the Colorado and entered Bright Angel Creek. From there he maneuvered through several smaller tributaries until making it to his current location. He had not seen another human being since shortly after leaving camp. He glanced down at his waterproof watch—it was 9:10 AM.
Ahead of him, he could see where the waterway narrowed to an opening of only about twenty feet between the canyon walls. A chain link fence stretched from one side of the stream to the other, its bottom only a few inches above the water, and its sides bolted into the cliff face. He could see a large sign bolted to the fence. The lettering on the sign was large enough that he could read it clearly even at over one hundred feet away. It read:
WARNING! RESTRICTED ACCESS—NO ENTRY
PROTECTED BAT HABITAT
U.S. PARKS SERVICE PERSONNEL ONLY
ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
Mark smiled to himself.
“Yeah, right,” he said out loud to no one in particular. “I’m sure they’re really worried about some bats.”
He pulled the kayak over to the stream’s edge along a narrow sandy shore just ahead of the fence. He got out of the boat and took off the life jacket he had been wearing for the past three days. Where he was going next, it would no longer be needed.
He reached into the storage area of the kayak in front of the seat and pulled out his stash of gear. He had purposely traveled light for this trip, but there were some supplies that were a necessity. He pulled out several one gallon water jugs he had stored in the front of the boat—you could never have too much drinking water in the desert. He poured the contents of two of the jugs into a backpack water reservoir he had purchased specifically for this trip. He also grabbed two large flashlights, and some very basic rock climbing paraphernalia he had been able to fit into the kayak. He also double-checked the bag to make sure his waterproof digital camera was present.
He turned on his satellite phone and glanced down at the battery indicator—it was down to thirty percent. He had significantly underestimated how quickly his new toy would run through a battery charge. He could kick himself for leaving the phone turned on during the first day on the river. But, what was done was done—he would have to deal with it, and hope for the best.
He began walking down the narrow shoreline toward the chain link fence. He looked around carefully. He could not see any evidence of security video cameras, but he knew they were here somewhere. If what he believed was true, this site was way too important for the government to leave unmonitored. He only hoped that he would have enough time to get the information he was seeking before the Feds caught up with him. Maybe when he told them that his sister was an FBI agent they would go easier on him…
He began scaling the cliff near the fence edge until he was high enough to clear the top of the fence. Luckily, it was only about twelve feet high. Once on the other side, he began scaling down the wall and dropped to the sandy ground. From here, he would have to walk for the next five miles or so—by his best estimation.
About ninety minutes later he reached his goal.
He looked up at the cliffs around him, and saw the target of the last few years of his work and life. After all this time, it seemed surreal to actually be standing here.
Most people would look up at these cliffs and never see what was really there. But, of course, that was all part of the design. He, however, knew what was there—he had spent a lot of time, money, and sleepless nights putting all of the pieces together.
The only thing that surprised him was how easy it actually was to get to the entrance of the cave. He had counted on a pretty perilous climb, but there was practically a trail leading straight to the camouflaged entry. Granted, a difficult and pretty precarious trail, but a trail none-the-less.
The climb up to the ledge took him less than thirty minutes. He had been prepared for so much worse, this part of the trek actually seemed fairly easy by comparison. On the ledge he looked to the areas where the cliff met the ledge floor, and there he saw it—a projection device. His eyes followed to where the projection terminated. He fired up the larger flashlight and shone it on the terminus of the projection. Momentarily, he interrupted its illusion.
He walked into the cavern. To someone watching from a distance, it would have appeared that Mark Newman had walked directly through a solid rock wall.
Once inside he moved to the left, following the front wall of the cavern until he reached the first corner. He pointed the flashlight at the wall in front of him, and saw exactly what he had expected—a swastika. He momentarily thought about how this symbol might be perceived if someone stumbled onto it here, not fully understanding its rich history.
He continued walking deeper into the cavern. The first room was huge—and empty—but he knew there was even more. About five hundred yards in he pulled out his satellite phone and turned it on. There was no service. Apparently, even the satellite signal could not penetrate these dense stone walls.
Either that, or something’s blocking it, he thought to himself.
He swallowed hard. He was trying hard not to let his fear get the best of him. But, standing here alone in the dark cavern, that was easier said than done.
He paused for moment and gathered his courage. Then, with a deep breath, he continued walking deeper into the chilly darkness.
Chapter 3
San Francisco, California (October 1951)
Julia Morgan sat back in her large leather desk chair and closed her eyes tightly. She was tired—more tired than she ever thought was possible. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s she had traveled up and down the California coast weekly, usually working six (or sometimes, seven) days a week. But now, even a simple morning in her office exhausted her.
Morgan was a small woman, well beyond what most would describe as petite. She was barely five feet tall, and her weight had never hit triple digits throughout her entire life. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her office in the Merchants Exchange Building had been her personal sanctuary for over forty years now, but for some reason it no longer looked the same.
She glanced over at her desk and saw the engraved plaque commemorating her appointment of emeritus status in the American Institute of Architects. She had never asked for any other professional accolades, in fact, she had avoided notoriety at all costs. But, this particular honor she had actively sought. She believed she had earned the distinction, and very few of her peers would have disagreed.
Asking for this recognition was out of character for her, since she generally disdained any sort of publicity or attention. Throughout her long career she had refused to enter any competitions, write articles for professional journals, submit photographs to architectural magazines, or even serve on any committees with her colleagues. She openly dismissed such activities as appropriate only for “talking architects.” She, as she would quietly explain, was a working architect.
She had served as William Randolph Hearst’s personal architect for a large part of her career, and with him she believed she had done her best work. But even Hearst could not overcome her aversion to publicity, as one of his top magazine reporters, Adela Rogers St. John, would discover first hand.
In 1928, Miss St. John had contacted Julia Morgan for a Good Housekeeping article series she was writing on important American women. The reporter was flabbergasted by Morgan’s refusal to even sit with her for an interview.
“But, Miss Morgan,” she said crisply. “I have Mr. Hearst’s permission.”
“Well, then,” Morgan had replied. “I suggest you interview Mr. Hearst.”
Adela Rogers St. John wrote her article series on important American women, but the architect from San Francisco was never mentioned.
Julia Morgan was born in San Francisco in January, 1872 as the second child of Charles Bill Morgan and Eliza Woodland Parmelee Morgan. Charles Morgan abandoned a secure upper class life in New England to strike out on his own to make his fortune in mineral mining. Her mother came from similar stock, although of the Old South instead of New England. Julia’s maternal grandfather had made his fortune dealing in cotton futures prior to the Civil War.
Charles Morgan was always considered somewhat of an adventurer, and shortly after his wedding he decided they should go where the new opportunities were available—and the land of opportunity was California. However, instead of taking the new transcontinental railroad across the country, Charles Morgan decided to sail around the tip of South America, exploring business opportunities as they went. Nearly eight months after leaving New York City, they sailed into the raw and rowdy frontier city of San Francisco.
They settled in a family hotel in the downtown area. The couple’s first child, a son they named Parmelee, was born in 1870. Julia was born two years later, and the family would eventually welcome three additional children over the subsequent years. The large family eventually moved to a big Victorian house in Oakland, where they would stay for the next fifty years.
Even with three sons, his second born was always Charles Morgans’s favorite. He and his daughter were kindred sprits, sharing a love of engineering, art, and adventure. Morgan would often take his daughter with him on his various expeditions searching for new mineral strikes—an activity which greatly concerned her mother. For a woman with her Southern gentility, she did not believe it appropriate for a young lady to traipsing around mining camps. However, Parmelee had always been a sickly child so it was not feasible for him to accompany his father. So, while young Julia was out learning the mineral exploration business with her father, Parmelee stayed at home with his mother.
In fact, it was one of those those expeditions to the Grand Canyon when she was ten years old that she considered the single most defining event of her life.
In spite of traveling so much as a child and missing much school, Julia graduated in the top of her high school class. She went on to the University of California at Berkeley where she also graduated with honors in 1894 with a degree in civil engineering.
She wanted to mix her knowledge of mathematics and engineering with her love of art, and she believed the best place to pursue that goal would be at L‘Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, the premiere fine arts school in the world. There was only one problem—the school did not accept women.
For over two years she petitioned the school to admit women. Eventually, she was given the opportunity to take the entrance exams. To the school’s dismay, she scored thirteenth highest out of 376 applicants. The school had no option but to accept her. Charles Morgan had never been so proud of his daughter.
After graduating from L‘Ecole des Beaux-Arts she returned to San Francisco to begin her architectural career. She opened her first office in a small building on Montgomery Street which was completely destroyed in the great earthquake of 1906. After that she opened the office in the Merchants Exchange Building where she still was today.
She did some of her early work for her alma mater at Berkeley. It was through those projects that she met Phoebe Apperson Hearst, who was a major benefactor of the University of California. An early feminist and suffragist, she was impressed not only by Julia Morgan’s work, but also how she had been instrumental in getting the L‘Ecole des Beaux-Arts to change their policy on the admission of women.
Mrs. Hearst introduced the young female architect to her son, the newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst. The younger Hearst was also impressed by the woman’s talent and commissioned her for several projects over their thirty-plus year association. The largest and most significant of which was their twenty eight year collaboration building La Cuesta Encantada—”the enchanted hill”—or as Hearst simply referred to it—”the ranch” in San Simeon. Everyone else, however, called it the Hearst Castle.
Over her long career she had designed over 700 buildings, including some of the most famous structures in California. But now, all that was over—she was finished. She called her assistant, Walter Hake, into her office.
Walter Hake had been with Morgan since very early in her career. He had been a construction supervisor on one of her first projects at Berkeley, and had been with her ever since. He had become a trusted colleague and a good friend.
“Walter,” she said quietly, looking over her glasses. “I’ve decided to close down the office. It’s time to retire.”
Walter Hake nodded. In one way this did not come as a complete surprise to him. She was over eighty years old now, and he had noticed that his old friend and boss had started to slow down over the last few years. On the other hand, he never thought she would be a person to accept the fragility of old age.
“Well, ma’am, you’ve certainly had a good run. You’ve got a lot to be proud of—a lot to be proud about.”
She smiled softly back at him.
“Thank you, Walter. I also want you to know how much I’ve appreciated your dedication and service over these many years. I’ve been putting something aside for your retirement as well…”
She slid a sealed white envelope across the desk to him. He picked it up and opened it. He had to look twice to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. It was a check for one hundred thousand dollars.
“Oh, my, Miss Morgan,” he said stammering. “I can’t accept this.”
“Don’t be silly—of course you can. You have been an exemplary employee—and a good friend—for all these years. You deserve a comfortable retirement as well.”
Walter fought hard to hold back the tear that was welling in his eye. He was going to miss this lady. He wondered what his wife would say when he told her that Miss Morgan had set them up for the rest of their lives. His wife had never much taken to Miss Morgan, but he thought this might go a long way to changing her opinion.
“Walter, there’s one more thing I need you to do for me.”
“Of course, Miss Morgan—anything.”
“I want you to burn all of the office records. The blueprints, the files, my journals—everything.”
“But, ma’am,” he said, surprised at what she was saying. “Why would you want to do that? Those are important things—I’m sure museums will want them some day.”
“No, Walter. I’m serious about this. My clients all have copies of their blueprints—they can give them to a museum if they want. I want all my papers destroyed before you leave tonight. Please promise me, Walter.”
“Of course, Miss Morgan. I’d do anything you’d ask.”
She smiled and seem relieved. She stood up from the desk, and picked up her shaw and umbrella. Walter Hake stood and faced her. He was surprised when she hugged him. In the thirty years they’d worked together, a few handshakes were the only physical contact they had ever shared.
“You take care of yourself, Walter.”
“You too, ma’am. You too.”
And with that, Julia Morgan left her office in the Merchants Exchange Building for the last time and returned to her house on Divisadero Street. For the next few years she only left that house a few times, and strongly discouraged guests from visiting her. She died there in her sleep one night six years later in the Winter of 1957.
Walter Hake stayed late on that last night of work, destroying the records as Miss Morgan had requested. One of the last things left were her three leather-bound handwritten journals. She had written in these journals as long as he had known her.
He shook his head, and put the journals into a large envelope, and slipped it into his jacket. He had never refused a request of Miss Morgan’s, but this was different. He just could not bring himself to destroy her journals—they needed to be preserved. And, besides, Miss Morgan would never know that he had not completely followed her wishes.
He carefully closed up the shop, and left the office to enjoy his life in retirement.
Chapter 4
San Francisco, California (Present Day)
Gabriel Patrick stumbled slightly as he got out of the back seat of the limousine. He looked around quickly, embarrassed that anyone might have witnessed his less than graceful exit from the car. The hotel bellman nodded slightly and smiled at him. Gabe gathered what dignity he could, and walked up the few red carpeted steps into the St. Francis hotel, as the bellman held the door open.
He entered the lobby and was suddenly aware of how bright it was compared to the darkness of the night. He glanced up at the gold plated baroque ceiling. It always surprised him how some things could be so simultaneously tacky, yet beautiful at the same time.
Even intoxicated, he was acutely aware of the history of the building around him. The St. Francis was one of the few buildings in San Francisco to survive the earthquake of 1906, only to burn a few hours later in the resulting firestorm. In the 1920s it had been the site of silent movie star Fatty Arbuckle’s ill fated liaison with aspiring actress Virginia Rappe—which resulted in both the demise of the young girl and Fatty’s career. Over fifty years later it had been the site of the attempted assassination of President Gerald Ford by Sara Jane Moore—one of Charles Manson’s “girls.”
Yes, these guided walls had been witness to a lot of history.
He was extremely aware of his steps as he walked through the lobby. He was trying very hard not to appear as if he had been drinking. But he feared it was a losing proposition.
He was pretty much a lightweight when it came to alcohol. Generally his limit was one glass of wine, or maybe a beer. Tonight, with one of the most expensive dinners he had probably ever eaten, he had consumed four glasses of a very rare vintage.
But, tonight had been a special night. He had recently completed an acquisition of a very rare piece of jewelry for a wealthy client, and the client had insisted on hosting a dinner at Fleur de Lys—a very upscale French restaurant in Nob Hill.
But, compared to the price that the client had paid to acquire the necklace—and the price he paid to Gabe for finding it—the ten thousand dollar meal was a drop in the bucket. Of course, Lawrence Smithley was not just any client. At eighty-one years old, he was still one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in Northern California.
Smithley had contacted Gabe about six months earlier, having learned of his unique services through a business acquaintance. He was looking for a gold and emerald necklace that had originally belonged to his grandmother. It had been lost during the Great Quake of 1906, but had later been recovered in the 1920s after being found in the possessions of a now dead man who had stolen it during the cleanup. The necklace had then gone to his mother, and with her death he gave it to his own wife.
The necklace had been lost again, this time during the earthquake of 1989. As before, it had been stolen during the cleanup after the quake. Unlike the first time, however, instead of staying in the possession of the man who stole it, it changed hands several times in the less-than-reputable jewelry black market. After following its path over the years since its most recent disappearance, Gabe eventually tracked it down to a private dealer in Boston. At Lawrence Smithley’s direction, he paid the dealer $250,000 to buy it back.
With Gabe’s “finders fee” of $100,000 the old man had paid a fortune for a necklace that he technically already owned. And, he couldn’t be happier.
That was really Gabe’s favorite part of his business—the happiness that he could bring to people. And, of course, the money did not hurt. He only worked for a few clients a year, yet he was making more money than he ever had dreamed he could. Of course, as a former assistant professor of art history, his salary expectations had always been pretty low.
He started the business—which his former boyfriend Kevin had named “Lost Loves”—a few years ago. It was one of those situations that was just kismet. He had been fired from his faculty position at Ohio State (although, the polite term used was that his “contract was not renewed”), and he was floundering. He originally started the business as small gallery, but had been hired by a wealthy lady to find a specific set of antique dishes, and that experience began to redefine what his business would become.
Then, his former partner and professional mentor Rudolph Zeffner was murdered, and Kevin showed up in Columbus asking for his help. The personal situation between the three of them had been very complicated (and some would say—fairly sorted). The events which followed after that were so bizarre that even today, Gabe had a hard time believing himself that all of it had really happened. Those events had culminated in a show down with a cold-blooded killer on a dark lake on a moonless Autumn night.
Everything in Gabe’s life seemed to fall into place after his experience that night on the lake. He and Kevin were once again very close friends, and he was the proud proprietor of a successful business that helped people reconnect with their own “lost loves.” All in all, it was a pretty good life…
Gabe was startled from that pleasant thought by the sight of a familiar face on the TV in the lobby bar.
Jesus. What a way to ruin an evening, he thought.
The television was showing CNN and some footage recorded earlier in the day from a senate confirmation hearing on Capital Hill. He should not have been too surprised; he kept up with the news and he knew all about the President’s nominee to be the new Secretary of the Interior. In fact, Gabe wished that he did not know nearly as much about him as he did.
Gabe turned away from the image. It had been a good day—he was not going to let that guy ruin it. Besides, he had been trying to be more forgiving lately—that whole idea about the kind of energy you put out into the universe is what you get back—or some similar Oprah platitude.
He was startled again by the ringing of his cell phone. He looked down at the caller ID display. It read Molly Newman.
Molly? She didn’t know he was in California and it would have been a little after midnight by Columbus time. It was not like her to call this late.
He answered the phone on the second ring in a near panic.
“Molly—are Vickie and the baby ok?”
Chapter 5
Washington, DC (Present Day)
Reginald Allard took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard. He had been through a lot of tough situations in his career, but this was by far the hardest thing he had ever had to do.
He was sitting in a holding room in a back area of the United States Capital building. He felt like he had been waiting for hours, but when he looked at his watch he realized it had only been about twenty minutes. The smell of the leather furniture in the room seemed overpowering and somewhat nauseating.
He was waiting for his Senate hearing to begin with the Committee on Energy and Natural Resources. Once he survived this dog and pony show, his appointment would be put up for a vote by the whole Senate. It seemed like quite a production just to get the job of Secretary of the Interior, and more stress than he wanted to experience. The bad part was this job was actually considered a “favor” by the administration for being such a good soldier for the Democratic party.
Last year he had made the decision not to run for a full term as Indiana’s Governor. He would like to say that the decision was his alone, but the truth was he was strongly encouraged not to run by the party. In the months leading up to the announcement, he could not believe the number of prominent Democrats who had called him wanting to provide “advice” on his decision whether or not to run. Of course, the “advice” was all slanted one way—it seemed no one in the party wanted to see his name on the ballot in November. The final call he got was from the President’s chief-of-staff, suggesting that if he would decide not to run, there could potentially be an opportunity for him in the administration.
That was pretty much all Reginald needed to hear. Of course, what no one realized is that he actually never intended to run. He was never supposed to be governor anyway—it was just a strange mistake of fate which made him the chief executive of Indiana to begin with.
He had been asked by Governor Kenneth “Butch” Waterton to run as his Lieutenant Governor in the previous election. Butch was running for his third term as governor, and was the rare breed of a popular Democrat in a red state. The governor had wanted to shake up his cabinet a little bit for this third go-around, and thought Reginald Allard would make a good number two.
Most political commentators thought it was an odd choice, since Allard had no previous experience as an elected official. His current job was president of Indiana University, and he had spent his entire career in academia. But after spending most of his life in Indiana politics, Butch Waterton had a pretty good sense of what would play well with his constituents. And, he was pretty sure Reginald Allard would play well.
During his tenure as president of IU, the school had won two back-to-back NCAA basketball championships, and had even finished second in the Big Ten in football one year. With every media mention of the school’s athletic success, President Allard made sure his name—and the fact that he had personally recruited the new basketball and football coaches—was highlighted in every story. Butch Waterton wanted to bring a little of that public goodwill for college athletics into his campaign.
Like most of the governor’s political instincts, this strategy played out just the way he thought that it would. He was reelected to a third term by a sizable margin over his Republican opponent—a rare feat in Indiana politics.
Reginald actually enjoyed being Lieutenant Governor. There was not a lot of responsibility associated with the role, and the job was a lot easier than being the president of a major university. He figured he could ride out this position through the governor’s term, then maybe he could score a sweet deal on the corporate meeting lecture circuit.
But, then, the unthinkable happened. Two years into this third term, Butch Waterton suffered a massive coronary and died in the middle of a cabinet meeting. Reginald Allard was suddenly the accidental governor of Indiana.
In a split second, his entire life changed—and not for the better. While he enjoyed the trappings of the office, the work and responsibility were overwhelming. For a man who had spent his entire career in academia, he was completely over his head in this situation.
During the next few years, Reginald made every effort to just keep the status quo going and not make any major mistakes. In the background, the party machinery was working full steam to find a suitable candidate for the next election. They found that candidate in a young state senator from Fort Wayne.
So, he really had no qualms about stepping aside for someone else to pick up the heavy lifting—especially if it meant some sort of White House position for him. It had taken several months for the right opportunity to appear, but then the former Secretary of the Interior had resigned to accept a high paying job in the private sector.
He called the President’s Chief-of-Staff, and in a veiled allusion to quid pro quo, he told the White House that Secretary of the Interior was the job he wanted. He believed it was perfect for him—after all, he held doctorates in both natural history and zoology. Plus, it was a cabinet level position, which Reginald very much wanted. After a few conversations with a few people high up in the administration (including a very brief call with the president himself), the president nominated him for the job.
That turn of events brought him to this waiting room in the capital this morning.
The door opened, and a pretty, young blonde woman stepped into the room. She smiled warmly.
“Governor, the committee is ready for you now.”
Reginald Allard turned and followed her out the door.
Chapter 6
At first Molly was surprised by Gabe’s reaction when he picked up the phone. She had never considered that by calling so late he would automatically assume something was wrong. And, based on their current situation, he would naturally assume there was something wrong with her partner Vickie or their soon to be born child.
“Oh, God Gabe—I’m sorry. I’m sorry to call so late, but I was on a plane. Everything is ok with Vickie and the baby.”
Gabe let out a deep sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. But it’s actually not late for me either—I’m in San Francisco for work with a client.”
“San Francisco? Seriously? I am too! In fact, that’s what I’m calling you about. I was hoping you could dial in for a conference call, but if you’re here that’s even better!”
“You were calling me about San Francisco? What are you doing here?”
“Well, it’s a long story,” she said. “My brother Mark has gone missing, and I’m trying to track down some information that might help me find him.”
“Mark is missing? What happened?”
“I’m not really sure. His girlfriend called me yesterday and said that it had been several days since she had heard from him and she was getting really worried.”
“I didn’t even know Mark had a girlfriend,” Gabe replied.
“Yeah, me either. But Mark always did have a string of girls hanging around. I guess some women really get into the nerdy, moody type. But, for some reason, he’s never had trouble attracting the ladies.”
“A trait which runs in the Newman family, I guess.”
Molly ignored the comment. They enjoyed the type of friendly ribbing that only people who have been close friends for a long time can. In many ways, Gabe felt more like a brother to her than Mark ever really did.
“Anyway,” she continued, unwilling to give Gabe the satisfaction that she had even heard—let alone registered—the remark. “She said that Mark had told her that he would be gone for about a week on a trip to the Grand Canyon where he was doing research for his PhD dissertation. That was almost two weeks ago now, and she hasn’t heard a word from him.”
“I can see why she’s worried. But, Molly, need I remind you that you’re FBI? I’m not sure how I can help you beyond the resources you already have available.”
“In this case, the bureau isn’t really much of a help. In fact, I was told that the FBI did not have jurisdiction, and that this should be handled by the National Parks Service.”
“The Parks Service? Do you even know for sure that he went to the Grand Canyon? Maybe he was just trying to let this girl down gently, and that seemed like a good story to tell her.”
“I’d like to think my brother has a little more game going on than that… But, yes, I do know he was in the Grand Canyon. I was able to do a little digging through a friend in park administration, and they have a record of him registering at campground called Phantom Ranch four days ago. Also, he had been given a rafting permit for a single person craft access to the Colorado River that was valid from April first through the tenth.”
Gabe looked at the calendar indicator on his watch. It was April 11th.
“Yeah, I can see why you are worried. But, I still don’t understand how I can help?”
“I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow morning with Mark’s program advisor. I wanted you there to talk professor-to-professor.”
“Molly, I’ll do anything I can to help, but Mark is a cultural anthropologist—my specialization is in art history. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” Molly said. “I’m sure you and Dr. Schmidt won’t have any problem at all understanding each other. But, Gabe—I really want you there.”
Gabe was surprised. Molly absolutely hated admitting to anyone that she needed help with anything. For her to say this, really made a statement about how concerned she actually was.
“Of course, Molly,” Gabe said. “I’ll be happy to go to the meeting with you. Where is it and what time should I be there?”
“It’s at San Francisco State University at nine o’clock in the morning.”
Gabe thought he could detect a note of relief in her voice.
“I had a key to Mark’s place and I’m staying at his apartment in Lakeside tonight. What hotel are you staying in?”
“I’m at the St. Francis on Union Square.”