Crown of Serpents Read Online Free Page B

him.
    She had adamantly made it known she was a New York State Police investigator and wanted him to follow her direct orders since he was messing up her scene and compromising evidence. He had gathered the broken cell phone pieces and the silver broach, placed them in the bag and then took multiple photos of the scene and victim. When finished he took the victim’s baseball cap and placed it back on his head. He wondered what the loud-mouthed investigator would think of that once the body returned topside.
    Upon emerging from the hole, Jake returned the evidence bag, camera, and radio to the fire captain he had been in contact with during the operation. Several more firefighters greeted him with a pat on the back for his efforts. The captain and a South Seneca Ambulance paramedic checked Jake for injuries and then, shaking his hand, thanked him for a job well done. Jake assured the medic he was fine and was left with a gray wool blanket which he wrapped around his shoulders.
    The captain asked Jake to stand back before giving the order for the recovery team to haul the body up. The captain then walked the evidence bag over to a woman in a dark blue baseball cap squatting down at a mound of earth. Three law enforcement personnel flanked her. Long auburn hair swayed through the back clasp of her hat. Jake read the words State Police on the back of her blue field jacket. She spun around, caught his gaze, slowly looked him up and down, and frowned. Jake turned back to the recovery.
    Four firefighters in yellow bunker gear and helmets pulled for several minutes on a utility rope to extract the victim. The body, with a skewed racing cap on his bashed-in head, finally made it out. The rope team set down their line as the basket surfaced next to the hole. The captain announced on his radio that the body had been recovered. A static-filled voice of a woman on the radio affirmed his message.
    One of the volunteers on the team, an overweight, sweat-soaked young man with a scruffy goatee, looked toward Jake, eyeing him with genuine disgust. Jake stared back until the volunteer glanced away, fumbling with his equipment. A large, red circular sticker decorated the side of the volunteer’s helmet. Don’t Sell Our Lands it blared, a red slash through an Indian head profile.
    In a barely audible sarcastic tone, Jake heard the young man say to his fellow firefighter, “Another noble savage to the rescue. Low life red faces are popping up everywhere these days.” He then chuckled. The other firefighter walked away telling the kid to grow up.
    Many a quick judgment had been made about Jake before. He had heard the whispers of lower ranked soldiers denounce his warrior ancestry or his intimidating zeal to lead from the front. He had heard the nicknames but had not been bothered. The nicknames actually were a form of flattery. But when it came down to an outright racist provocation he confronted each individual head-on and never backed down. This pudgy volunteer was certainly no exception.
    With a pulsating jaw, Jake walked up on the lone volunteer and stepped into the kid’s personal space. “You all pissed off that some red face got here first and stole your glory, eh hero?”
    “What the f—!” The volunteer jumped back in surprise. He then angrily folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t say a thing, man. You must be hearing shit. Besides what your kind doing out here anyway?”
    Jake’s blood went hot. “My kind?” he questioned loudly. He stood nose to nose with the young man. Several heads turned their way. Jake pointed over to the body basket. “My kind was trying to saving that guy’s damn life.”
    “We don’t need no Indians out here, trying to take things from us.”
    “Take things from you?” spat Jake. He advanced a step forward, forcing the volunteer back. “You got a screw loose in that so-called brain of yours?”
    The volunteer recoiled. “I mean threatening to steal our rightful county property over