Panther Mountain Conspiracy

By Dean Hosmer

The Russian Foreign Intel Service has infiltrated a Naval defense contractor and stolen the plans for the Navy's Railgun. The spies have also kidnapped Dr. Robert Hawthorne, a physicist that designed the weapon and a smaller version to aid the Syrian resistance.

Follow FBI agent Allison Thiel and Hawthorne's grandson, Lincoln, as they try to unravel the conspiracy of kidnapping, murder and espionage that goes all the way to the doorsteps of the NSA!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Hosmer
• Release date: Jan 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781773026794

Dean Hosmer

Dean Hosmer owned lakefront property in the Adirondack Mountains for almost ten years before beginning to write The Panther Mountain Conspiracy. He holds undergraduate and graduate degrees from The University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Hosmer has lived in Connecticut, California and Colorado. Today he resides in Virginia with his wife and black Labrador Retriever.

Book preview

December 15

7:30 PM

Northern Adirondack Park

New York State

Lincoln Hawthorne sped along the highway between Lake Placid and Tupper Lake, marveling at the beauty of the forest. The twenty-four year-old had the driver’s seat pushed all the way back, so that his long arms could rest comfortably on the steering wheel. In the early evening gloom, snow continued to fall and hang heavily on the boughs of the evergreens guarding the winding blacktop. This was the perfect backdrop for his weekend getaway at Saranac Lake.

At Corey’s Corner, notable for a handful of unoccupied ramshackle buildings, he turned off the highway and onto Panther Mountain Road. Here the county road hugged the woods more closely, as his Jeep rumbled across an old steel bridge over the edge of wetlands. A beaver dam guarded the stream where it emptied into the lake.

Arriving to a silent cottage, blanketed with the heavy snow of winter, he was perplexed. The cabin stood on the edge of the lake, cold and empty. No lights greeted him and no smoke filtered out of the chimney. Yet his grandfather was supposed to meet him that evening. They planned to get a good night’s sleep and go deer hunting at dawn.

The slender, muscular young man shouldered his pack while grabbing the sack of groceries from the passenger seat. Fumbling for his keys, he trudged through the snow to the front porch.

His black Labrador followed in his footsteps. Jet paused to look at the frozen lake before realizing his normal swim would not be happening. The dog slipped onto the porch as the screened door slammed against the frame, the sound echoing across the lake.

Lincoln opened the dark red exterior door and to the young man’s relief, the lights came on when he flipped the switch. The small room, which housed the dining area and kitchen, was truly charming. A cast iron wood stove stood against the back wall, and the cabin, with its pine floors and bead-board paneling, smelled of the wood.

Dumping his pack and groceries on the counter, he searched the drawers for a box of stove matches. A fire was soon dancing off the walls. Cracking open a pale ale and taking a long drink, he waited for the stove to breathe forth heat and bring the old cabin back to life. Lincoln was tired from the long drive from Virginia, but was concerned about his grandfather’s whereabouts.

Where’s Gramps, Jet? reaching down and scratching the dog’s head. Without warning, the dog began a low, deep growl, the hair standing up on his back. Jet’s tail stood straight out, his black snout and piercing brown eyes pointing directly into the unlit den. Looking at the dog, Lincoln’s senses sounded an alarm.

Setting his beer down on the table, he cautiously walked past the stairway leading to the loft and upstairs bedrooms. Stopping at the entrance to the main living area, he stared into the unlit room, his reflection peering back at him from the French doors on the back side of the house. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Jet had positioned himself between Lincoln and the large couch in the room’s center, continuing his ominous growl.

Lincoln took a slow step forward, his eyes adjusting to the low light. Above the cushion of the couch, the gray head of his grandfather was arched back in the agony of death, a large pitchfork protruding from his chest. Its end pointed to the bank of windows high above, which framed a defiant mountain peering down through the forest.

Almost paralyzed with shock and fear, Lincoln haltingly pushed past Jet, avoided the couch, and made his way to the phone on a table across the room. His hands shaking, he dialed 911, and shouted at the operator for help.

Three Months Earlier

Mid-September

9:00 AM

Panther Cottage

Saranac Lake, New York

Sinking into the soft, cool leather of his favorite recliner, Dr. Robert Hawthorne reached for the phone and waited for his call to be answered at MIT. He was a tall man with silver-white hair and a pleasant countenance. Hawthorne had received his degree from the university almost forty years earlier. Today, he was a respected, renowned physicist specializing in naval weapons systems.

An operator came on the line and asked Hawthorne how she could direct his call?

Dr. Samuelson, the Physics Department.

Samuelson.

Charlie, this is Robert. The rails for the gun arrived yesterday. I wanted to thank you for the quick turnaround and inquire about the heat trials.

They fell well within the tolerances you provided. The carbon composite made all the difference.

That’s great. Thanks for the department’s help with the project. Any chance you’ll be up this way to see the fall colors?

Not this year, I’m afraid. Maybe some trout fishing in the spring, if that works for you?

Anytime, Charlie, and thanks again.

Disconnecting, Hawthorne leaned back into his chair and recollected those early days at MIT. He had hoped his background in physics would propel him into the emerging space program. Instead, he joined the Navy and had been instrumental in maximizing their weapons’ programs. Looking out through the French doors in the den, he watched a group of turkeys feeding among the cedar trees. What might have been, he thought to himself.

December 15

8:00 PM

Panther Cottage

Saranac Lake

Collapsing at the foot of the steps leading to the second floor, Lincoln gripped his head in his hands. Horrified by the vision of his dead grandfather, he felt both fear and anger, as the two emotions battled in his mind. The cold, damp air in the cabin had become unbearable and he began to shake.

Jet stood protectively between Lincoln and the couch. His bark and the flashing lights from out on the driveway notified them of approaching help.

The banging on the kitchen door forced the young man to lift his head and stare blankly at the officers waiting for access. Struggling to his feet, he opened the door to uniformed men.

I’m Lieutenant Paul Miller with the New York State Police. This is Sergeant Jonathan Shaheen and Officers Johnson and Martel. What is your name, sir?

Lincoln. Lincoln Hawthorne.

Are you the owner of the property?

No. My grandpa. He’s…he’s dead, Lincoln struggled to say the words.

Where is your grandfather?

The ashen-faced young man simply nodded toward the next room. His head was bent, tears were rolling down his face, and his heart was jumping within his chest. He pulled Jet back by the collar, as Lieutenant Miller looked over Lincoln’s shoulder at the couch.

Miller and Shaheen walked into the den. The two other officers remained in guarded position, between the entryway and Lincoln, the snow on their boots melting onto the pine floor. Crouched next to Lincoln, Jet’s eyes darted between the strangers at the doorway and those in the other room. Lincoln could hear the low murmur of conversation between the two officers before they reappeared.

Miller, in his mid-forties, thin and clearly in command, came back into the kitchen. The officers are going to search the house, just to be safe.

Lincoln didn’t respond, but Jet barked as the two officers climbed the stairs to check the loft and bedrooms.

What’s your grandfather’s name?

Robert Hawthorne.

The two uniformed men exchanged a glance. Dr. Hawthorne was known in upstate New York as both a renowned physicist and longtime benefactor of environmental projects in the Adirondacks.

The officers returned and Martel nodded to Miller.

Johnson, contact the County Medical Examiner and arrange to get the forensics team out here. Make sure they park up on the road. We don’t want the crime scene truck getting stuck in this snow.

When Johnson left, Miller turned back to Lincoln. What time did you arrive?

Less than an hour ago. I drove up from the DC area.

Why’d you come up?

My grandfather asked me to help him move some things back to his house. We also planned to go deer hunting. Lincoln put his hands over his face and bent over, trying to suppress the emotions roiling deep inside him.

Miller paused and put his hand on Lincoln’s shoulder, allowing him to regain his composure. Mr. Hawthorne, where is your grandfather’s home?

McLean, Virginia.

Shaheen, whose looks belied his age, picked up the conversation. Did you touch anything in the den, including your grandfather?

Barely audible, he answered, No.

Waiting a moment, Shaheen continued. We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr. Hawthorne. Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your grandfather?

Nobody. But the damn pitchfork is alarming!

I understand it’s gruesome, but why do you say alarming?

Reminds me of this crazy old man I saw last summer, stalking along Panther Mountain Road with a pitchfork. He was bald, bare-chested and talked to himself. Just acted strange.

Has he ever threatened your grandfather, or anyone else?

Not that I know of.

Do you know his name?

No, but maybe my dad does, Lincoln’s voice trailed off.

Miller was making a note, when Johnson returned and reported that Dr. Appel and the crime scene techs would be leaving Plattsburgh within the hour.

Good. Johnson, I want you up on the road to meet them. Martel, you’ll remain down here.

Turning back to Lincoln he asked, When was the last time you saw your grandfather?

Sunday. He came over to our house for dinner.

Sergeant Shaheen and I are going to drive you into town. There is a quiet motel where you’ll be comfortable.

Objecting, Lincoln protested, What about my grandfather? We can’t just leave him like that!

Taking a deep breath, Miller replied, Frankly son, I think he’s been dead for several days. There’s nothing more we can do for him tonight. The folks from Plattsburgh need to process the crime scene and they’ll treat your grandfather with respect, I assure you. Let’s get you out of here and into town. We’ll talk more tomorrow.

Numbly climbing into the back of one of the State Police SUVs with Jet, Lincoln knew the joy he had experienced at the lake with his grandfather was gone, never to return. A sense of dread spread over him, like he was being smothered in an avalanche that was too deep, preventing him from breathing.

December 15

10:00 PM

State Police Post

Tupper Lake, New York

Lieutenant Miller drummed his fingers on his desk as he talked to Sergeant Shaheen. Miller, a twenty year veteran of the New York State Police, was tall, and well proportioned for his forty-five years. Shaheen, fifteen years his junior, was a local who served three tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. He had been on the force for five years and was stocky and strong, with a quick wit and broad smile.

Jonathan, what do you think we have out there?

Sure looks like Hawthorne wasn’t killed at the cottage, but brought there. I didn’t see any of his personal belongings. No luggage, no keys, no computer, nothing. There wasn’t a second vehicle on the property.

I think you’re right. The lack of blood indicates he died somewhere else. Contact the Virginia State Police and ask them to take a look at his home in McLean. Maybe we can learn something from them. In the meantime, we need to talk to Cap Clark. I think he’s the guy Lincoln described.

* * *

The two officers drove cautiously back along Panther Mountain Road. Turning into a long driveway which led to Clark’s house at the end of the lake, they followed the curve of the road. The SUV’s headlights illuminated a series of signs warning the public to stay out. The officers were struck by the crudeness. A junk car, with the words Fuck the World painted on it, had been deposited on the side of the road. Another sign warning passers-by to Get the hell out was propped against the car.

"I guess he believes in God and Love thy