by David Wood
“That is not what I’m talking about.” Tamsin glowered at her. “What have you found at the island?”
It was the question Morgan had anticipated the moment they had appeared at her doorstep, and she was prepared.
“I have news, though it is not all I had hoped it would be.” She described in great detail the Templar church that had been discovered beneath Oak Island, omitting the smaller chamber where the lost item, whichever one it was, had been kept. She showed them the photographs researchers had taken, apologizing that she had not assembled them into a proper presentation.
“So you see,” she finished, “the discovery confirms that the Templars did, in fact, reach Oak Island, but we have not recovered any of the items we seek.” She gave a false sigh. “If the news had been better, I would have summoned you immediately but, considering the limited success of our search, I was not eager to give you my report.” There. That should settle them.
“Do we have any leads on the artifact that was stolen from the church, or on the man who took it?”
Morgan froze in the act of shutting off her computer. How had Tamsin come by this information? She knew all of her Sister’s key operatives and their activities and whereabouts. None of them could have possibly known. And Rhiannon’s base of power lay in the church, so she could not be the source. It was a conundrum that would require her attention, but not right now. Now was the time to stand firm.
“Locke is working on it,” she said simply. Maintaining her calm exterior, she returned to her seat, sat with her hands folded in her lap, and smiled at Tamsin. Ordinarily, Morgan would not waste time sitting in silence, but she knew Tamsin put great store in such trifles as not being the first to speak, thinking it somehow gave her power. Let her believe that. Right now, Morgan could use it to her own advantage. She watched as Tamsin’s cheeks reddened and she began to chew on her lip and fidget slightly until finally she could take no more.
“What is this plan?” Her voice was hot with anger.
“We have taken into custody a young woman who is close to the culprit. When he has finished questioning her, Locke will arrange an exchange. The girl for what was taken.”
“Details, please.” These were the first words Rhiannon had spoken, and her velvety voice betrayed no emotion. Of the two, she posed the greater potential threat to Morgan. Tamsin had no guile, while Rhiannon was cool and calculating. Tamsin had authority, but lacked the ability to capture the hearts and minds of the people. Rhiannon was beloved as a spiritual leader, though if the world knew her true religion, she would be cast down. Fortunately, Rhiannon had never given any indication that her position, a step below Morgan, chafed at all.
Morgan could see no use in prevaricating. She outlined Locke’s plan, assuring them that the long sought-after treasure would be in their hands in a matter of days.
“Do we know which of the three it is?” Rhiannon maintained her calm, courteous manner.
“No.” Morgan had her suspicions, based on accounts of the thieves’ escape, but she would not share them.
“Very well,” Tamsin sighed. “I need not remind you that the plan...”
“I know, Sister.”
“Then you understand our concern,” Rhiannon said smoothly. “The window of opportunity is a small one. If our quest confounds us again, we will be forced to wait.”
“Need I remind you that, a few days ago, we were utterly without hope?” Morgan met their stares each in turn. “Now that hope is rekindled, and I am doing everything in my power to see to it that we do not miss this opportunity. But do not forget, Sisters, the mere possession of any of these artifacts is no small thing. We can use them to cement our power and entrench ourselves in the imaginations of the people. We will be queens!”
“You will be Queen,” Rhiannon corrected. “Your bloodline is more direct than ours.”
Morgan smiled at the thought. Prime Minister was well within her reach, but her aim was higher. She longed for the day they could finally set the plan in motion. A wave of change was about to sweep the world, and she would ride its crest.
“Sister, do we know the thief’s name?” Tamsin seemed, if not cowed, at least placated.
“Maddock,” Morgan said. “Dane Maddock.”
Chapter 21
Trinity Church sat at the corner of Wall Street and Broadway. Its ornate spire, nearly three hundred feet high, stood in stark contrast to the modern buildings all around. A wrought iron fence ringed the property, as if to stave off the intrusion of city life. Dane found it disorienting to look upon the centuries-old brown stone church, the gothic architecture, and the historical cemetery, with its weathered gravestones, crypts, and monuments, then turn his head to see congested streets choked with taxi cabs and sidewalks where pedestrians navigated an obstacle course of vendors’ carts and gawking sightseers. He, Bones, and Avery paused in front of it, taking a moment to admire the famed landmark.
“So this was Kidd’s church, huh?” Bones asked.
“It was.” Avery quickly donned the mantle of lecturing professor. “Not this building, of course. This is actually the third Trinity Church. The original structure was built in 1698. During its construction, Kidd even lent the runner and tackle from his ship to help them move the stones.”
“That’s pretty old, for white Americans, that is.” Bones gave her an evil grin and Dane chuckled. “The cemetery looks pretty cool. Maybe we’ll have time to check it out.”
“There are a lot of famous people buried here and in Trinity’s other two cemeteries. Alexander Hamilton, Horacio Gates, Robert Fulton, John Jacob Astor...”
“Wait, the Jingleheimer Schmidt guy is buried here?” Before Avery could reply, Bones laughed and gave her arm a squeeze.
“Good thing Angel isn’t here. She’d have punched you for that one.” Dane felt a pang of regret and realized how quickly he’d grown accustomed to Angel’s presence. He missed her easy laugh, her self-confidence, and the way she rode herd on Bones.
“Yeah. Don’t you know she’s climbing the walls in that rinky dink jail?”
“You don’t seem too concerned that your sister is sitting in a jail cell,” Avery said. “Are you two not close?”
“She’s fine.” Bones waved her concern away like a wisp of smoke. “This isn’t Angel’s first rodeo. She wasn’t as bad as me when we were kids, but she had her moments. I just feel sorry for her jailer. You think I can get under someone’s skin, you ought to see her in action.”
Dane smiled at the thought, but couldn’t escape a feeling of guilt that they hadn’t found a way to get her out of her predicament.
They spent a moment longer admiring the church and the grounds, soaking in the history.
“Doesn’t it seem like we go to a lot of these places?” Bones asked.
“Yeah, but no complaints here.” Dane examined the architecture, its blend of sturdy lines and artistic trappings. He loved these pockets of history that stood against the disposable construction of recent generations “At least, not too many complaints.”
“You guys keep dropping these little comments about places you’ve gone and things you’ve done,” Avery said, “but you won’t dish. It’s starting to tick me off.” She gave them each the evil eye and stalked into the church.
Dane grimaced and looked at Bones, who chuckled.
“She’s a spitfire.” He started to say something, then hesitated. It was a strange thing for Dane to witness. Bones was never uncertain about anything. At least, he never let it show. “Say, Maddock, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“All right. Shoot.” As eager as he was to go inside and begin the search, he was, at the moment, even more curious about what Bones wanted to talk about.
“It’s kind of weird for a guy to have a thing for his best friend’s sister, don’t you think?”
Dane felt his face grow hot. All his conflicted feelings about Angel rose anew. Had he been that obvious? How long had bones known?
“Bones, I don’t know what
to say.”
“Look, if you want me to stay away from her, I will. She’s your sister and I don’t want to mess up our friendship, but I wouldn’t mind hanging out with her. She’s cool.” He looked at Dane then looked away.
It took Dane a moment to realize what Bones was talking about, and then he laughed.
“Oh! You mean Avery.” Relief flooded through him.
“Yeah. Wait, who did you think I meant?” Bones cocked his head and looked quizzically at him.
“Nobody.” He quickened his pace and didn’t meet Bones’s eye. “Yeah, that’s cool. I could tell you have a thing for her, and she’s only been my sister for a couple of days.”
“Dude, you suck at math. She’s been your sister all her life.”
“You know what I mean. It might be different if we’d grown up together.”
“Yeah, that might be a little different.” Bones sounded thoughtful.
“We’d better get going.” He strode through the gate, headed toward the entrance, relieved Bones didn’t press the issue.
By the time they caught up with Avery, she had used her credentials and charm to gain a look at the journal. She sat at at table under the close scrutiny of an archivist, a stocky man with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a youthful face. He gave Bones a funny look before returning his attention to Avery, who was carefully turning the pages with gloved fingers. Dane and Bones sat down on either side of her and watched her work.
The journal was thin, its pages yellow, and the script faded. Avery worked her way through the book at a steady pace, her blue eyes moving back and forth across the page as she devoured the text, putting Dane to mind of a typewriter carriage. When she finally reached the end, she frowned.
“What is it?” Dane asked.
Avery held up her hand, cutting off further questions, and slowly leafed back through the journal. After a few pages, she paused and leaned closer.
“Careful,” the archivist cautioned. “No sneezing or drooling allowed.” He smiled, but his comment was not entirely meant to be humorous.
“Pages have been torn out.” Avery slid the book across the table so the archivist could take a closer look. The ragged edges were just visible.
“Are you sure?” The man took a closer look. “Holy crap.” He dragged it out into a good four syllables, and Dane thought he detected a trace of a southern accent, so out of place in the heart of New York City. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take this back.” He donned a pair of gloves and gingerly reclaimed the journal from Avery.
“Do you know if the page was there when it came into your collection?” Dane asked.
“I assume so, but I haven’t read the entire thing. The donor is meticulous and I think she would have mentioned if it was incomplete.”
“Who else has looked at the journal since it came into your collection?” Avery sounded like a prosecuting attorney interrogating a witness, and her manner seemed to take the man aback.
“Only the...” He reddened and shook his head. “Only the donor.” He averted his eyes, but Dane could see the lie there.
The guy was obviously protecting someone, but who, and for what reason? Instinct told Dane that the archivist was not a bad sort. Dane decided to take a chance.
“The part of the journal you read, was there any mention of Captain Kidd?”
“There was.” The man’s face brightened. “It was interesting and a little weird. Kidd was in trouble with the crown and he knew it, so he came to Vesey because he said he had a secret he wanted to confess. Vesey doesn’t go into detail, but Kidd says a secret was entrusted to him that he didn’t want to let die. He gave Vesey what he called a ‘treasured possession,’ but Vesey inspected it later and couldn’t see that it had any value.”
“Did he say what it was?” Avery had stripped off her gloves and now clutched the edge of the table.
The man shook his head.
“We’re interested in Vesey,” Dane began. “Are any of his personal effects on display at the church, or anywhere else? Maybe a wooden chest?”
“There is an old chest that’s bounced around the church since Vesey’s time, though I don’t know if it belonged to him. It’s nothing fancy, and has been ill used, I’m afraid. It was passed around and used for storage until someone finally realized its age and thought it was worth preserving. At the moment it’s in St. Paul’s Chapel.”
Avery smiled and nodded at Dane. The pieces were falling into place. They thanked the man and left the chapel in a hurry. When they reached the street, Avery didn’t pause, but turned left and took off down the sidewalk at a fast walk that bordered on a jog.
“So where is St. Paul’s?” Bones asked, his long legs allowing him to easily keep stride with her.
“Just a few blocks down the street,” she said. “It’s a part of Trinity Church. I know where it is, but I’ve never been there. It’s even at the corner of Broadway and Vesey Street. I’m so stupid.”
“You’re just like Maddock. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Bones began, but clammed up at one look from Avery.
St. Paul’s was a Georgian-style church, boxy and surmounted by an octagonal tower on a square base. From the Broadway side, a portico sheltered a statue of Saint Paul, which was flanked by double-doors on either side. To the left of the entrance, in a fenced, grassy area, stood an obelisk, on which was carved an eagle and a man’s profile. Dane wondered if this Masonic symbol could have any connection to the Templars who built the church beneath Oak Island.
The interior of the chapel was elegant, but was not awe-inspiring like Trinity Church. Cut glass chandeliers cast slivers of light across the ceiling and the rows of white pews. All around them, banners memorializing the tragic events of the terrorist attack on the World Trade center a decade before hung as stark reminders of the disaster that St. Paul’s had, according to Avery, miraculously avoided.
They fell in with the other tourists and made their way around the church. The history of the place was interesting. It had withstood not only the 2001 attack, but also the Great New York City Fire of 1776. Both George Washington and Lord Cornwallis had worshiped here at different times, as well as other figures of historical significance. Though he found it all interesting, Dane was growing impatient. Where was the chest?
And then he saw it.
A simple, wooden chest sat atop a plain table in the back corner. It was afforded no special place. In fact, it was being used to hold brochures. Dane took that as a good sign. No one who knew anything about the Kidd legend or the potential connection between this chest and the legendary pirate would ever put it to such a pedestrian use. If this was the chest they sought, there was a good chance its secret remained undiscovered.
He nudged Avery and inclined his head toward the chest. Her eyes lit up.
“That’s it. It’s identical to the one Dad found.” She took a hasty step in toward the back corner, but Bones grabbed her by the arm.
“Slowly,” he said. “Don’t draw undue attention to yourself.”
They moved casually in the direction of the chest, still looking around as if no single thing held their interest. When they reached the corner, Dane turned to Bones.
“Turn around and look scary.”
“Can do, boss.” Bones pretended to answer his phone, twisted his face into an agitated scowl, and began speaking in a harsh whisper. Dane had to admit Bones was a pretty good actor when he put his mind to it.
“Let’s see if it opens the same way as the other chest.” Avery pressed her finger against a raised wooden square and moved it side to side, then up and down in the shape of a cross. The square came free, revealing a hidden compartment.
Smiling, Avery reached in and removed a brass cylinder, uncapped the end, and plucked out a roll of aged paper, much like the Oak Island map. She handed the cylinder to Dane and was about to unroll the paper when someone called out.
“What’s this now? Give me that.”
A big man with a shaved head approached them from ne
ar the doorway. If his British accent didn’t set off warning bells, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip did. The man took a step closer and held out his free hand.
“That’s right, hand it over now.”
Dane tossed the cylinder at the man’s face and, as the fellow reached up to grab it, drove his fist into the man’s chin. The big man’s knees turned to rubber and he went down in a heap, his eyes glassy. Dane grabbed Avery by the arm and steered her toward the door. All around them, people were talking and pointing. A few had taken out cell phones and were probably calling the police.
“He was a Red Sox fan,” Bones explained before following Dane and Avery out the door.
Beneath the portico, Dane looked out at the street and saw a dark-haired man leaning against the fence that ran along the sidewalk. Their eyes met and the man stood ramrod straight and reached behind his back.
“Gun!” Dane shouted. Still holding Avery by the arm, he made a hard right and ran around the corner of the church and onto the churchyard. They sprinted past the obelisk just as a bullet deflected off its surface.
“Looks like it’s time to call in the cavalry!” Bones shouted, punching up a number on his phone while running at full speed. “Church Street at Fulton,” he barked, then tucked the phone back inside his leather jacket.
They dashed through the cemetery, navigating the tombs, hurdling low gravestones, and ducking in and out of the trees that shaded the yard. They reached the end of the church and veered to the right just as another muffled pop sounded and a bullet buzzed past his ear. The streets were busy, but the guy didn’t seem to care who he might hit.
“Get Avery to the street.”
Bones nodded and pulled her along, ignoring her protests.
Dane leaned against the wall and waited. He heard the sound of footfalls and someone breathing hard. As their pursuer came around the corner, eyes on the receding figures of Bones and Angel, and his pistol leveled, Dane lashed out with a vicious roundhouse kick, catching the man across the shins and sweeping his legs out from under him. He landed face down on the stone path with a sickening thud, his breath leaving him in a rush.
