The Coelho Medallion Read online




  The Coelho Medallion

  Kevin Tumlinson

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part 1

  1. Columbia University—New York, New York

  2. Columbia University—New York, New York

  3. American Museum of Natural History—New York, New York

  4. FBI Offices—New York, New York

  5. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  6. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  7. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  8. Cañon City, Colorado

  Part 2

  9. St. Thomas More Hospital — Cañon, Colorado

  10. Undisclosed Location

  11. Smuggler’s Caves—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  12. St. Thomas More Hospital—Cañon, Colorado

  13. Smuggler’s Caves—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  14. Smuggler’s Caves—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  15. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  16. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  17. Manhattan, New York

  Part 3

  18. Undisclosed Location

  19. DEA Decoy Site—North of Pueblo, Colorado

  20. American Museum of Natural History—New York, New York

  21. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  22. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  23. Mark Cantor Estate—Colorado Springs, Colorado

  24. Private Guest Quarters, Cantor Estate—Colorado Springs, Colorado

  25. Mark Cantor Estate—Colorado Springs, Colorado

  26. Memorial Hospital North—Colorado Springs, Colorado

  27. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  28. City of Gold

  29. Coelho Dig Site—Near Pueblo, Colorado

  Epilogue

  Stuff at the End of the Book

  HOW TO MAKE AN AUTHOR STUPID GRATEFUL

  About the Author

  Also by Kevin Tumlinson

  Copyright © 2016 by Kevin Tumlinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  Prime Alert Fire Safety Products, Inc. — New Mexico

  Alarms were already blaring, echoing through the canyons of corrugated aluminum among the outbuildings and warehouses of Prime Alert Fire Safety Products.

  Alarms were a bit unusual here. The facility was located in an expanse of desert nestled in among some foothills in New Mexico, close to the Colorado border. The closest town only had a few hundred people, officially. Unofficially, maybe a few hundred and fifty. And none of them had any interest in breaking into a bunch of warehouses where smoke detectors were manufactured and stored.

  Except for tonight.

  Henry "Hank" Lott was pretty sure this would turn out to be a case of some bored teenagers getting a little too drunk and a little too rowdy. He figured he would find them next to one of the metal out buildings with a can of spray paint and more than a few bottles of beer, tagging the giant metal canvases of the warehouses to show their virility before slinking off to diddle each other in the brush. Guys and girls, Hank figured. Kids.

  Hank was the night shift here, and he had no issues with that. He didn’t even mind being alone. He made his rounds in the beat up Chevy pickup that the company had issued him almost three decades ago. He ran off the same sort of teenagers who were probably causing all the ruckus tonight.

  The monitoring service had called just 20 minutes ago, and Hank rolled out form his little spot overlooking the mountains and the flat-pan of the surrounding desert. He was a little grumpy about putting down the book he was reading, a Nick Thacker thriller that was really killing the hours. But he so rarely saw any activity here it was tough to be mad for too long. There was always the chance he might catch some burglars trying to steal computers from the offices or something.

  He pulled up to Building Three, one of the storage and staging warehouses where boxes of smoke detectors were stored before shipping. From here, Prime Alert reached out to the Walmarts and Targets and Home Depots of most of the united states, selling a reliable and inexpensive product to the masses. Hank felt a certain amount of pride, working for a company that actually did save lives, if indirectly.

  Building Three’s front entrance was open, and a large moving truck—one of those that could be rented from a home storage center—was backed up to the bay. From his vantage point, Hank saw two men moving within the barely-lit interior of the warehouse. They were using hand trucks to load stacks of boxes into the moving van.

  Hank stepped out of the Chevy and drew his weapon—an aged .45 that he’d had since he left the service. It was his personal weapon, and much more comforting to him than the little .9mm pea-shooter the company had tried to issue him. It would make a big bang and a big hole, if the need arose. Thankfully the need never had.

  Hank also took out his mobile phone and dialed 911. In a whispered rush he told the operator the situation and his location, and said that there was a robbery in progress. He advised them that he was armed, and about to engage the suspects. Before the operator could tell him to stay put he hung up. The police wouldn’t be here for quite a while—the facility was at least half an hour from the closest police station. But by then Hank hoped to have these guys rounded up and held at gunpoint.

  He stepped away from the Chevy without closing the door, and crept quietly toward the moving truck and the gap in the loading bay.

  When he was close enough, he saw that there were actually four men, not just two. They were quickly loading the hand trucks and rolling boxes of smoke detectors into the van, then speeding back to reload.

  “That’s enough,” he said loudly, aiming his weapon at the men, who were clustered around the next batch of boxes.

  They froze, and turned on him.

  They were wearing black masks that hid their features, along with black gloves. Their coats were olive drab—probably military castoffs.

  “Just step away from the boxes with your hands in the air. Get down on your knees out here in the open floor.”

  Hank had stepped through the gap and into the loading area of the warehouse, and he kept the gun trained on the men the whole time. He hadn’t expected four men, but he felt he could keep them subdued until the police got here.

  The men made no move to do as he’d ordered.

  In fact, it almost seemed like they had no idea what he was even saying.

  Suddenly there was a sound from behind him that sent goosebumps up his back and made him break out in a sweat. Hank had heard that sound before, back in the war. He knew what it meant.

  It meant he was a damned fool for not looking back.

  “Lower your weapon” a voice said from behind him. It was strongly British, and sounded a bit young. But it was firm, and left no room for doubt as to what the owner of the voice would do if Hank didn’t do as he was told.

  Hank raised his left hand even as he knelt down and placed his weapon on the ground. When he stood up again he raised his right hand, and turned to look into the back of the moving van

  A man stood among the stacks of boxes that the burglars had already loaded. It was quite a lot, actually. In the short time it had taken for Hank to put down his book and get over here these men had systematically emptied a very large portion of the warehouse. There were thousands of smoke detectors already loaded into the van.

  “You called the authorities, I assume?” the man asked. He, too, was wearing a mask and gloves, and the olive drabs. And he had a semi-automatic rifle aimed directly at Hank’s head.

  “Yeah,” Hank said. “They’ll be here any minute. So I’d …”

  “You couldn’t have called them more than ten minutes ago. It will take half an hour at best for anyone to get here.” The man paused, as if running numbers in his head. “We have time.”

  “They’ll be here any—“

  Before Hank could finish the man raised the rifle and fired a single burst, striking Hank right in the chest. He fell forward, slamming to the ground, and coughed and sputtered from the pain. He tried to crawl away, but the man had dropped down from the van and stepped up to him.

  Hank looked up at him, rolling onto his back. The man stood over him, held the rifle in one hand like a pistol, and put a bullet in Hank’s head.

  With the deed done, the man said something in Arabic to two of his men, and they rushed to move Hank’s body out of the way, then scrambled back to the boxes. In moments they had emptied the warehouse, and sped away into the night even before the sirens could be faintly heard in the distant New Mexico Night.

  Northwest of Pueblo, Colorado

  Just when Hal thought that every inch of mountains, trees, and rivers in the world had been catalogued and named and pixeilized by Google Maps, he crested another Colorado ridge. There, stretching out in front of him, was a world that couldn't possibly be known.

  How could it? Not a road for miles. No houses or barns or derelict old gas stations. Even airplane flight paths skirted this spot. For once, all Hal had to show for civilization, as far as his eye could see, was himself. His collection of Gander Mountain hiking gear was the closest thing to human intrusion for miles.

  And then his mobile phone rang.

  He fumbled in the pocket o
f his cargo shorts and pulled out that one vice he'd never been able to kick. Cigarettes and booze were nothing compared to his iPhone, which now caught a glint of sunlight and blinded him for an instant before he blinked and answered the call.

  "Hello?"

  "Hal? Where are you?“

  Heidi's voice had that amazingly subtle but unmistakable tone that said she was annoyed with Hal to the point of stabbing him. He'd know it anywhere. He heard it often.

  She was back at the cabin, probably sipping a glass of Pinot Grigio while complaining about him to her folks.

  He sighed. "I took a hike. I had to get away from you for a while."

  "Oh God," she said. Hal recognized that tone, too. Now she was annoyed and disgusted with him. That was her tone that said he was too pathetic to believe. It was the tone that said she thought he was a loser.

  Or … that’s how it always felt to Hal, anyway.

  ”Get away from me? That’s a really nice thing to say to your wife, Hal. I can't believe you went without me. Where are you?"

  “I just needed a break,” Hal said. “I’m a few miles away. I found a trail. I'll be back before dark."

  "We're supposed to go on a hay ride this evening!"

  "I'll be there," he said, and then abruptly hung up.

  Just like that.

  Which as something he wouldn’t usually do—he would typically argue with her until they were both so furious they were saying unbelievably hateful things, which he would later apologize for, even though he thought he'd done nothing wrong. That was the dynamic of their relationship—each of them went for the throat, but he was the only one who ended up apologizing for it.

  Not this time.

  The fight had already happened, and he was still pissed at her for making him the bad guy—one more time— just for wanting to do more with his limited vacation days than sit and stare at the mountains and remain totally silent while she said anything that came into her head and ...

  He took a deep breath, looked at all the nature around him, and willed himself to just let it go. It wasn’t really her fault. She was stressed, and he knew that. They both were. It had been a rough year. It was just—he couldn’t always be the bad guy, could he? He couldn’t always be wrong.

  When she called back he ignored it, sent it to voicemail, and just kept walking.

  Actually, it wasn't really that he was still all that pissed. In fact, he'd gotten over the fight hours ago. The whole thing had been really stupid—one of those fights where you eventually figure out you're both saying the same thing, but you're spewing acid and molten lava anyway, so you might as well burn each other to ashes.

  Stupid. Pointless.

  It had started when he woke up that morning with an urge to finally go on a hike, but Heidi had vetoed. She didn't feel like hiking, she said. She just wanted to “relax for once.”

  Which, by Hal's estimate, was all they'd done since getting to Colorado. He’d made it clear when they left that he was perfectly willing to go along for the ride on anything her parents wanted to do. His only stipulation was that he wanted at least one day of hiking and exploring—soaking in the kind of countryside he didn’t get to see much these days, since moving to the city. Heidi had agreed, had even smiled lovingly and talked about how wonderful it would be for the two of them to find some secluded spot, away from all the chaos of life, and maybe have a picnic. She had legitimately seemed enthusiastic about it.

  But once they arrived, and her parents had shown up, the hike seemed to continuously get pushed further back on the agenda. And by now Hal knew, it wasn’t likely to happen at all.

  That was pretty much how these things went. If it was something Hal wanted, it steadily drifted down the priority list, falling below sitting and staring, apparently.

  Of course, Heidi accused him of being "a big baby" when he complained that he hadn't gotten to do the one thing he'd wanted to do here. She reminded him that this trip was supposed to be about her parents and their anniversary, and about spending time with family. Hal reminded her that they'd just spent nine days with her family—which just ended in Heidi rolling her eyes and saying something condescending under her breath.

  That had been his limit.

  ”No problem," Hal had told her coldly. "I wanted to go by myself anyway."

  And that was the start of all the yelling.

  They'd had this fight before. Hal was a fairly independent guy, and always had been. At times, he had his fill of quality time, and so he would make plans to take a road trip or just hit a movie, or maybe just go for a walk by himself.

  Somehow, Heidi always managed to invite herself. And what could he do? Nice guys—stand up guys who respected and loved their wives—didn't say things like "I don't want you to go." That made things tense and stressful. It made resentment flare up. It made life suck.

  So despite his objections Hal usually just closed his mouth and let her come along. It sucked, but it helped keep the peace at home.

  This time, though, he had been adamant. He was going by himself. She, equally as adamant, assured him that he was not—maybe not in so many words, but she did make it plain that he would have to wait until she was ready before he could even step foot out of the cabin.

  Hal stepped down onto a natural staircase of rocks and brush, looking outward as he did, into the forever expanse of wilderness and nature. He was alone here. Not a soul to be seen. Not Heidi nor her parents nor anyone else in the world.

  He liked it.

  As he came to the bottom of the inclined terrain he found a path. It looked like an animal trail, and for a minute Hal paused and reconsidered.

  There are big cats here, he thought. Or some kind of predatory animals, anyway. Not to mention snakes. Were there snakes in this part of the country? He was sure there had to be. TV and movies always showed huge rattlesnakes in places like this.

  He had a walking stick that had a pretty decent heft, and he was reasonably sure he could fend off most small to medium animals if the need arose. He didn't think there was anything bigger around, now that he reconsidered. Nothing he'd have to worry about right now, anyway. He hoped.

  But the trail was here, and it was too good to just pass up. It wound its way through brush and large rocks, and disappeared just past a rise in the landscape.

  Hal set out, the hefty walking stick in hand, and followed the trail until he came to a river.

  He stopped abruptly.

  He checked his iPhone.

  The map didn't show a river here. He turned on the satellite view, and was greeted by nothing but rocks and trees. No roads. No towns. No river.

  Was he lost?

  With a slight panic he checked the GPS, and saw that it was on and working.

  Was there something else wrong?

  He turned to look back up the path. On the map, he located the rise he had come down, and traced his finger along the route he had just taken. He came to where the dot indicated he was standing, and ...

  There was no river there. Not on the map anyway.

  Now he worried.

  He had heard stories about heavy rains causing a flood somewhere out of visual range, and walls of water suddenly gushing through gullies and dry creek beds—low patches not unlike the one he was currently standing in.

  Hikers would sometimes get caught unaware by these flash floods, dashed into the rocks and trees and anything else that happened to be in the path of the rushing water, their bodies disappearing into the wild.

  He checked his iPhone for weather reports, and saw no rain anywhere within hundreds of miles. There was also no indication that it had rained earlier in the day anywhere that would be upstream of this place. Nothing that should cause a flow of water here.

  As far as he could tell, this river was just somehow overlooked by the satellites and mapping technology.

  Hal held up his iPhone and took pictures of the river as it stretched in both directions. He made sure the GPS coordinates were attached, so that he could find his way back here again sometime—assuming, of course, he would ever get a chance to make a trip like this again.

  He thought about posting about this place on Facebook and Instagram right away—but stopped.

  It was a beauty of a river, he had to admit. A really nice spot, and totally worth sharing. It would make an interesting story—I was just hiking along and there it was, completely out of nowhere. The map showed nothing at all. But look at these shots!