Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

“This resembles the glyphs I discovered on the island in the Devil’s Triangle.” Stone shook his head slowly, considering this revelation. If this place were connected to the island, that meant it had something to do with his grandfather’s work. It also meant that others, including John Kane, might be interested in finding it. That meant it was important.

“I assume whoever obscured the writing on the wall also removed whatever stood in the center of the cave,” Alex said. “But what was here, and who took it?

“I don’t know.” Stone shook his head. “But I’m determined to find out.”

5- Constance

Brock Stone stretched and breathed deeply of the evening air. Mist hung low over the Potomac River and the last traces of sunset painted the horizon pink. He was puzzled by what they had found in the hidden chamber. He had spent the afternoon in his grandfather’s library, hoping to find the key to deciphering the mysterious glyphs. So far, he had found nothing helpful.

Stripping down to his skivvies, he waded into the cold water. He barely felt it, such was his mental focus. It was one of many skills he had acquired while studying with monks in Tibet. Isolated in his mental cocoon, he waded out until the water was waist-deep, then began to swim. He propelled himself against the Potomac’s gentle current with powerful strokes. He was as committed to physical fitness as he was to mental acuity, and these regular swims were an important part of that discipline.

His sharp ears caught a low thunk in the distance, the sound of a wooden paddle striking a gunwale. He paused, treading water, and looked around.

About a hundred yards away, a young woman paddled a canoe. She was straining to maintain a straight course, whispering harsh curses every fourth or fifth stroke. As Stone watched, she steered the narrow craft toward the far shore, let out a stream of invective, and switched her paddle to the other side. She leaned into her strokes, digging the wooden blade deep into the water. The canoe began to tilt.

“Sit up straight,” Stone called. “You’re going to tip.”

The warning did not have the desired effect. Instead, the woman let out a yelp and tried to stand. That was a mistake. The canoe capsized, dumping its occupant into the water.

Stone made a beeline for the woman, who broke the surface seconds later, sputtering and splashing. She went under, then came up again.

“Help!”

Stone reached her just as she went under again. He hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her out of the water. She struggled, kicking and flailing.

“Stay calm. I’ve got you.” Stone kept his voice level. Far too often, drowning people managed to take their rescuers down with them.

“I can’t breathe,” the woman gasped.

“Yes, you can. I need you to lie back and let me support your weight. I will keep your head above water.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Brock Stone.” He didn’t know if his name meant anything to her. Why would it? But he felt her relax. As she floated on her back, he hauled her over to her canoe and she clung to it like a life preserver.

“Can you swim?” he asked. “Or at least keep your head above water until I can get you back to shore?”

She glared at him, intense blue eyes shining behind a curtain of sodden blonde hair. “Yes, I know how to swim, but my dress is weighing me down.”

“Why would you wear a dress to go boating?” Stone laughed.

“Do you honestly think I haven’t asked myself that question half a dozen times since I fell in?” She let out a sigh.

Stone nodded. “Think you can slip out of it?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Sorry, but I’m not some flapper.”

Stone blinked. “Flapper? It’s the 1930s.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Forgive me for having better things to worry about than what women of loose morals are called these days.”

“Your moral superiority just might drag you down to the bottom of the river. Seriously, you will have a hard time keeping your head above water with it on. I promise won’t look.” He saw her hesitate and hurried on. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m in my shorts.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “That makes it worse, actually. Oh, fine. Just stay close by and make sure I don’t drown.”

Holding on to the upturned canoe with one hand, she first removed her shoes one by one and handed them to Stone. Next, after a great deal of effort and a few more curses, she managed to free herself from her dress, which she flung at Stone. It struck him on the cheek with a cold, wet slap.

“I’ll pull the canoe, you hang on to the stern. Feel free to push if you’re able.”

“I think I can manage.”

“Good,” he said, taking hold of the bow and beginning to swim. “By the way, do you have a name?”

“Constance Cray.”

“A pleasure to meet you, present circumstances notwithstanding.”