by C. M. Palov
“Maybe the Narragansett Indians attacked the settlement.”
“The Indian custom was to leave the bodies to rot where they fell. They wouldn’t have dug a burial pit nor razed the settlement to the ground. And the Maltese and Jesuit relics uncovered by Dr. Lovett point to an entirely different villain. In the early sixteenth century, the Jesuits took over the Inquisition. However, as ordained priests, they could spill no blood.”
“Let me guess. . . . They contracted the Knights of Malta to do their wet work.”
“The Maltese knights giving new meaning to the phrase ‘submit or die.’ ”
She shook her head, still trying to make sense of the centuries-old massacre. “This is what I don’t get—why kill the Templars’ descendants? They committed no wrongdoing.”
“One of the more onerous edicts of the Inquisition was to sear the offspring with the heretic’s brand.”
Shuddering, Edie switched on the digital voice recorder.
According to Tonto Sinclair, Yawgoog faded from the scene when the white colonists arrived. Although, and this is key, right before his stage exit, Yawgoog made the Narragansett the custodians of his vast treasure. Soon thereafter, colonial land grabs and King Philip’s War pretty much wiped out the tribe, who have only recently made a come-back. Which means Tonto Sinclair may be the only Narragansett Indian who’s ever heard of Yawgoog’s treasure.
My gut feeling is that the treasure is stashed in Yawgoog’s subterranean hideaway. But the Arcadia Management Area comprises some seventeen thousand acres. The cave could be anywhere. The only clue I have is the carved Templar boulder, which I’m convinced is an encrypted signpost. I also found some weird primitive writing on one of the foundation stones that I excavated, although I doubt the inscription has anything to do with the treasure. Kinda hard to read a signpost that’s buried underground.
Even though I’ve only found six gold coins, there’s no doubt in my mind that we’re talking about the largest treasure in the world. I am so close. I even defaulted on my student loans so I’d have the cash to fund the search. But I’ve hit a roadblock. I need someone who can decipher the damned Templar carving. I’m going to D.C. to see if I can interest Caedmon Aisquith in the job. The guy’s a real academic renegade. I read his book Isis Revealed, and according to his bio, not only is he currently working on a book about the Templars, but he’s also interested in the Ark of the Covenant. While the Templars didn’t leave an inventory list, it’s possible the relic was part of the cache. Since I need a man with Caedmon Aisquith’s skills set, I’ll use the Ark as my calling card. God, I hope he’ll agree to help. If he does, I’ll give him a decent cut of the action. Of course, any number of folks would love to elbow me out of the way. We are, after all, talking about a shitload of money. I can’t be too safe. No one knows about my wilderness crash pad. Or so I thought until I caught someone prowling around. Said he was a hiker who lost his way, but . . . this guy did not look like a trailblazer. Unless we’re talking the Strip in Vegas. A real Rico Suave decked out in tight cargo pants. That’s why I’ve got the artifacts and all of my research notes well hidden at the cottage.
If someone is listening to this, shit, it means the fucker finally caught up to me. Just so we’re clear, I’m not paranoid. I am being stalked. But there’s too much at stake to tuck tail and run. No way in hell I’m going to let that pretty boy bastard take what’s mine. If he wants the treasure, he’s going to have to—
The recording abruptly ended.
Caedmon stared at the digital recorder as he thoughtfully tapped his index finger against his chin. “Lovett knew the enfant terrible was watching his every move.”
“This Rico Suave guy was probably hoping that Lovett would lead him right to the fortune. Although why kill the gilded archaeologist before he finds the fabled treasure?”
“I don’t know. But I would be interested to examine this boulder with the Templar cross pattée carved onto it.” Pulling the computer onto his lap, Caedmon quickly accessed an online travel agency.
“You’re going to Rhode Island, aren’t you?”
“Ah! The Hope Valley Inn is located just a few miles from Arcadia.” He glanced up from the computer. “And, yes, I am going to Rhode Island. Lovett presents a compelling case for the outlawed Templars taking their treasure to Rhode Island. The Ark of the Covenant may well have been part of the treasure trove.”
“Hel-lo! Did you even listen to the recording?” Exasperated, Edie answered her own question. “No, you did not. Because if you had listened, you’d know that Lovett used the Ark to lure you into the showroom. He didn’t provide one scrap of evidence to prove the Ark is part of this fabled—”
“Even if the Ark isn’t included in the treasure hoard,” Caedmon interjected, “I can’t ignore the fact that the Knights Templar may have established a secret colony in the New World. That alone warrants further investigation.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Edie carefully considered her next move. Not only did Caedmon have an obsessive interest in the Knights Templar, he also had a chip on his shoulder, courtesy of the history department at Queen’s College. Although he rarely spoke of the long-ago incident, he resented the dons at Oxford who’d trashed his unorthodox dissertation, bitter waters running very deep. So, no surprise that he wanted to uncover a new twist on the Templar tale. If he succeeded, it’d be the ultimate “Up yours!” And, as his paid research assistant, she did have a vested interest. Particularly since her other career prospects weren’t exactly paying the bills.
Edie glanced at the matted and framed photographs of Ethiopian women that she’d placed around the room. Some were candid shots, others were posed. All were photographs of women. No doubt, her degree in women’s studies had something to do with the content. The collection was her first foray into the realm of social documentary photography. She’d shown the photos to a couple of local dealers, managing to snag a weeklong show at a Dupont gallery that specialized in African art. Several of her photos had also been purchased by the Ethiopian embassy and would be displayed in their main reception hall. It was a small start. A baby step, really.
“I agree that the lost Templar colony will make an exciting chapter in your next book.” Caedmon would get no disagreement from her on that score. “But Jason Lovett was killed today because of something he found in Rhode Island. We have no idea what we’re going up against. And, according to the now dead Jason Lovett, the Catholic Church mounted a sneak attack on the Templars’ New World colony, slaughtering the inhabitants outright. We are treading on very dangerous ground.”
“First of all, the slaughter occurred nearly five hundred years ago. The church has long since abandoned its search for hidden Templar treasures. As for Jason Lovett’s tragic murder, we have nothing to fear; the killer doesn’t know that we’re privy to the digital recording.” Caedmon’s clipped tone made him sound like the calm voice of British reason.
Edie took a moment to digest the rebuttal; he’d punched big holes in her case. Persuasive as always.
“The phrase aqua sanctus might possibly lead to Dr. Lovett’s hidden research notes,” Caedmon continued. “I won’t know until I get there.”
“You’re gonna need a research assistant. I’ll go upstairs and pack a bag,” she announced, her mind made up.
“After what happened today at the House of the Temple, I’m concerned that—”
“Don’t say it.” She threw up a hand, forestalling his objection. “I know that you’re concerned for my safety, but as you just pointed out, Jason Lovett’s killer doesn’t know that we have the recording. Besides, you pay me to do a job—although I prefer to think of myself as your partner in crime and not just a business deduction on your taxes.”
Caedmon smiled at the jest. “In that case, be sure to include a pair of sturdy boots.”
“And I’ll toss in a bottle of sunscreen and a—Whoa!” she exclaimed in midstream, startled when all of the lights in the house suddenly went off. “I think we jus
t blew a circuit.”
“On the floor! Now!”
“What!?”
CHAPTER 18
Edie heard rather than saw Caedmon dive off the couch in her direction. An instant later, his chest plowed into her shoulder, shoving her to the floor. Stunned, she opened her mouth, sucking in a gasp of air.
“Wh-what’s going on?” Then, a split second later, the realization dawned: “Oh God . . . it’s him, isn’t it?” Him being Jason’s Lovett’s killer.
Caedmon pressed his mouth to her ear. “Where’s your mobile phone?”
“Um . . . kitchen . . . charger . . . on the counter,” she rasped, unable to speak in full sentences.
“Right.”
Crouching over top of her, Caedmon grabbed her by the hand and pulled her off the floor, dragging her to the staircase in the foyer.
“Now what?”
“I want you to go upstairs and lock yourself in the bathroom. Do not, under any circumstances, come back downstairs.”
Shock having mushroomed into full-blown terror, Edie obeyed, taking the steps two at a time. Stumbling near the top, she made a wild grab for the banister. But not before painfully banging a knee against one of the stair treads. Her kneecap throbbing with pain, she hobbled down the hall.
Moments later, door securely locked behind her, she scanned the porcelain-and-tile confines of the bathroom.
She needed a weapon!
Lurching toward the cabinet above the sink, she yanked it open and took a quick inventory: medicine bottles, ear swabs, cosmetic bag, hairbrush, Band-Aids. Nothing even remotely dangerous. Panic swelling, she wiped a clammy hand against her skirt. Somewhere, in the shadows of her house, a killer lurked, intent on—
Plunger! The thick rubber cap was attached to a sturdy wood handle. If need be, she could use the shaft like a billy club.
With that thought in mind, she rushed over to the toilet bowl and snatched the plunger from its hidey-hole behind the porcelain tank. Tucking the plunger under her armpit, she went to the window. Palms pressed against the lower sash, she shoved upward.
The window refused to budge.
“Come on!” She balled her fist and pounded on the sash.
Teeth clenched, she tried again. Success! Opening the window to half mast, she scanned the alley. The fluorescent streetlamp on the corner buzzed and flickered, casting a surreal tangerine glow onto the row of parked cars and trash receptacles that lined the rutted lane. Several streets over, a dog repeatedly barked. Directly opposite, on the other side of the deserted alley, a light shone in the window.
Edie cupped a hand to her mouth. “Hey, you! Over there! Open the window!”
No one answered the summons.
The jackhammer insider her chest thumped faster. What if Caedmon can’t get to my cell phone to call the police? Rico Suave could kill them just like he killed Jason Lovett.
To hell with that! Grasping the plunger between her hands, Edie took aim and hurled it across the alley at her neighbor’s window.
The rubber end hit the screen window before bouncing off and landing in the alley below. Edie held her breath, hoping someone inside the house would investigate the commotion.
Nearly twenty seconds passed before a small Latino boy tentatively pulled aside the curtain and peered out the window.
“I need you to call the cops!” Edie hollered.
The child shook his head, uncomprehending.
She put her right thumb to her ear and her pinky to her mouth. The international sign for “phone call.” “Policía! Urgente!”
The little boy’s eyes opened wide. A few seconds later, he ran from the window. Edie had the sickening feeling that her plan just backfired, that rather than eliciting his help, she scared the bejesus out of the kid.
Her stomach painfully cramped, she stumbled over to the locked door and put her ear to the small crack between the jamb and the door. Caedmon was downstairs, in the dark, defenseless.
“Please, please, please,” she whimpered to the powers that be.
Because, in that terrified instant, it suddenly dawned on her: She no longer had a weapon.
CHAPTER 19
Hearing a floorboard groan under a heavy weight, Caedmon froze.
The killer is inside the house.
His field of vision reduced to shadowy shapes and dark objects, he stood motionless. Holding his breath, he listened for a footfall. A swish of fabric. Anything to pinpoint the intruder’s location.
The entire house was silent as the grave.
Clever bastard, cutting off the electricity, he thought grudgingly as he tiptoed into the kitchen. Made him think the assassin had preternatural senses. Or the advantage of night-vision goggles.
He came to another standstill, taking a moment to review the kitchen’s layout in his mind’s eye—refrigerator on the right, stove on the left, Edie’s mobile on the counter next to the back door. And, most important of all, carving knife in the third drawer. He pivoted in that direction. In the near distance, a police siren shrilly blared.
Suddenly, nostrils twitching, he detected a familiar scent. Sandalwood. The same cologne worn by Jason Lovett’s killer. The bastard was here, somewhere in Edie’s kitchen. Hearing a sharp breathy inhalation, he intuited the deadly spring was about to uncoil.
Damn!
Like a mortar fired from a cannon, Caedmon launched himself at the cabinetry. Grabbing a knob, he yanked open the third drawer. Sundry kitchen tools loudly rattled. No time to choose, he grabbed the first utensil he laid his hand upon—a steel sharpening rod. Armed, he spun on his heel, weapon raised.
Just then, a beam of golden light hit his ocular nerve. Blinded by the unexpected burst of illumination, he shielded his eyes with his left hand while his right arm furiously slashed through the air, warding off an attack.
“Caedmon! It’s me!”
His pupils contracted, enabling him to see that Edie stood in the doorway, a flashlight grasped in her hand. “Get the bloody hell out of—”
“He’s gone.” She pointed to the opposite end of the kitchen.
Craning his neck, Caedmon saw that the back door was wide open.
“The neighbors called the cops. I’m guessing that when Rico Suave heard the police siren, he got spooked and ran off.”
Indeed, the strident blare had become louder in the intervening seconds.
“Thank God.” Exhaling a ragged breath, he walked over and closed the door, securing it with the chain latch.
“Lucky for us, Rico Suave’s survival instincts are stronger than his killer instincts.” Although the remark was uttered with a fair amount of bravado, the worry lines between Edie’s brows belied the bluster.
“Trust me, the latter are finely honed.”
Worry lines deepened. “Maybe we should cancel the trip to Rhode Island.”
Opening the metal door that housed the electric panel, he flipped the main circuit, flooding the kitchen with fluorescent light. “The sooner we leave Washington, the better.”
With Jason Lovett’s killer on the prowl, it would be foolhardy to remain.
CHAPTER 20
“You must follow them to Arcadia.”
Heavyhearted, Mercurius hung up the phone. While not dire, the situation was troubling. Earlier today, one problem had been resolved only to have another emerge in its place. Jason Lovett had taken the historian Caedmon Aisquith into his confidence. Not only did the Brit know about the Templar colony, he was determined to find the sacred relic.
Mercifully, the Brit had no idea what he sought.
Worried what danger the new day would bring, Mercurius trudged down the hall toward his study to keep vigil. As was his custom, he stopped in front of the framed photographs that hung on the wall. His gaze slowly went from one heart-wrenching image to the next. The massacre of Armenian Christians. The extermination of European Jews. The slaughter of Bosnian Muslims.
Bodies . . . blood . . . bones.
“‘And they utterly destroyed all that was in the
city, both man and woman, young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the edge of a sword,’” Mercurius softly whispered, the verse from Joshua ironically apropos. Ironic because three millennia ago, a terrible evil was spawned, an abomination that fostered hatred, promoted bigotry, and incited intolerance. Darkness followed in its wake. The evil manifested into the cult of monotheism. Judaism, Christianity, Islam—within the bosom of each cult beat the heart of darkness.
Crusades . . . holy wars . . . jihads.
Could anything be more reprehensible?
So much hatred and violence. Century after bloody century. One could sweetly dream of a peaceful planet, but with the dawning of each new day, the nightmare returned. Indeed, mankind can be forgiven for viewing the world with suspicion. A suspicion germinated from the niggling fear that perhaps our gods had played us false. That we’d been duped into believing this world was created by a benevolent and merciful God.
What if it was all a hoax?
For there, in each haunting picture, was the uncontestable proof. A thousand words not nearly enough to convey the unrelenting anguish.
. . . and darkness was over the face of the deep.
Confronted with this pervasive darkness, what man didn’t yearn to be free of the torment? Drugs, sex, food, shopping, gambling—just a few of the sedatives that mankind used to anesthetize the pain.
As always, his gaze returned to the framed black-and-white image of emaciated corpses haphazardly tossed into an earthen pit. He reverently touched the glass that covered the sixty-six-year-old photograph. Auschwitz.
“Lest we forget . . .”
While that atrocity still haunted, who would mourn the slain Templars tossed into a mass grave at Arcadia? Mercurius didn’t need a photograph to envision that brutal episode. The Templars’ descendants had been hunted for their heretical beliefs. But massacred on account of the sacred relic that they’d safeguarded. For all their vaunted courage, in the end, the Knights Templar could not bring themselves to use the relic to eradicate the evil in their midst. Perhaps they’d harbored an ill-fated hope that the world could be redeemed.
