The Time Stone, Third Edition (Extended Version)

Police cruisers with sirens wailing loudly light up the vicinity of the museum as the dark skies are partially obscured by the street lamps that burn with vibrant luminosity. Uniformed officers walk back and forth in a hurry. One passes along the front of the museum entrance holding a plastic evidence bag. The patches on their shoulders read Chronix Bay Police Department. They set up roadblocks from the main road and roll out yellow crime scene tape to cover the perimeter. Several news vans and various people stand about a dozen feet away. Several men in suits also walk along the grassy pathways, outside the museum, heading towards the front entrance.

A blue Lincoln town car pulls up with U.S. government plates, its headlights shining into the scene like a beacon of hope. “Wait up,” says one of the suited men about to enter the museum as he runs back towards the town car. Lieutenant Brock Walton runs up to the car and stops near the front passenger side door. He waits eagerly for the door to open and pulls it. It opens as it starts to move. “It’s about time,” says the fair-haired man in his late thirties.

“I’ve been fighting off the press for an hour. We got a serious situation inside,” says Lieutenant Walton.

“I know. That’s why I’m here,” says the man in the car rising out of the passenger seat and removing the sunglasses he coolly wears even in the nighttime. “The Bureau wants a complete report on everything that has been going on. If this case involves what we think it does, it’s our baby until the end. He smirks.

“I still don’t understand why the Bureau wants action on this. It’s a regular theft.”

“There are some occurrences surrounding this ‘regular theft’ that encompass the unusual and bizarre, which my division is used to investigating.” The FBI agent speaks eloquently and sincerely as he touches his ear and wrinkles his nose. A small patch of brown hair furrows behind his ears slightly longer than that of the average man. His face is pale and somber and he has a hint of eagerness in his tone.

Lieutenant Walton leads the man through the walkway and inside the museum. “I know we’re friends, but this cloak and dagger stuff is beyond anything I’ve known in my professional career,” says Lieutenant Walton.

“All information is on a need to know basis only,” says the man as he flashes his FBI badge to the uniformed officer standing guard outside the entrance. The man enters the museum, following his local police colleague, and sees the many colorful exhibits and heroic figures on display. The federal agent’s jaw almost drops in awe as he remembers suddenly his boyhood fantasies of wanting to be like the Gothic knights of the old code in medieval Europe. But then he snaps out of it, when he remembers why he is really here. He notices a small dab of moisture being emitted from a small pipe near a glass casing, with a cleverly-cut hole in it. A famous artifact once had rested in the casing, but now it’s empty and is surrounded by yellow police crime scene tape.

The agent is memorized, looking around. He did not notice that his old friend, the lieutenant, was still talking. “I tell you it doesn’t make sense. Locals claim they heard some kind of explosion, but there is no evidence of any debris. Whatever it was, damn thing turned off the alarm system”.

“Interesting,” says the agent quietly looking around.

“Adam, please come over here,” says Lieutenant Walton as he points to a black body bag on the floor and grimaces.

Adam walks over and examines the scene, “What is it Brock?”

“The body is still fresh, rigor hasn’t set in. We responded as quickly as we could after the alarm went off. The medical examiner says he is going to need to take it right away, but I wanted to wait for your arrival.”

“Open it,” says Adam.

Lieutenant Walton sighs while shaking his head and bends down on one knee. He unzips the bag revealing the dead security guard, his face pale and his eyes shut. “The coroner examined him just before you came. The cause of death was a bullet from his service weapon. Poor S.O.B. must have panicked in the heat of the moment. It was a breaking and entering job. Someone stole the pride of the museum’s collection, the fabled ‘Eye of the Gods,’ exceedingly rare emerald quartz. It’s supposed to be one of a kind. Its value was last appraised and insured by Lloyds of London, at over sixty billion dollars. That is one pricey paperweight,” Lieutenant Walton laughs at his own joke.

Adam notices a slight green glow behind the guard’s ear that slowly fades into an electric phase. It was completely unnoticeable to the others that had observed the body. “This wasn’t about money,” replied Adam without even a smirk. He stared at the cold lifeless face of the former night security guard.

“Wrap up the case files and the body along with all security footage,” Adam speaks adamantly gesturing to the cameras on the wall with his finger. “Our medical team and forensics group will take it from here.”

“But Adam, what the hell is going on in here?” Lieutenant Walton rises to his feet demanding answers.

“Sorry old friend,” says Adam. “But this is federal jurisdiction now in the interests of national security.” Adam’s eyes burn with the electricity of his heart and soul, as he looks at the dumbfounded Lieutenant and puts back on his sunglasses. Adam smirks as he turns and walks towards the door, opening it with one hand and reaching into his breast pocket with his other hand for his cell phone.

“What the hell does this have to do with national security?” yells Lieutenant Walton at his old friend. Adam continues walking out the door as the cell phone he holds emits a long antennae automatically. “That’s ridiculous!” exclaims Lieutenant Walton as he shakes his head furiously. He hears the sound of footsteps far ahead of him and the sight of his oldest friend and army buddy, rudely walking away.