The Templar Chronicles Omnibus

by Joseph Nassise

Cause of death was listed as exsanguination, caused by multiple knife wounds to the chest. Father Martin had bled to death alone there in the early morning darkness, unable to call for help. Cade found himself hoping the old man hadn’t suffered too much, that his faith had allowed him to face death with the same bravery and determination with which he’d faced life.

  The report noted that the wounds were caused by a common kitchen knife, that the weapon had been recovered at the scene, and that the nature of the wounds matched the size and shape of the blade. The knife itself had been sent to the lab for analysis, so Cade was not going to be able to examine it for himself.

  But he had the next best thing.

  Martin’s body.

  He put the report down and turned to Riley. “M.E. puts his death sometime last night, early this morning, which means we’ve still got time to give this a shot.”

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “All right. You know what to do if anything goes wrong.”

  Knowing he was in good hands, Cade turned back to the body and took a few deep breaths, preparing himself mentally for what was to come, and then removed the thin cotton gloves that he habitually wore, the gloves that kept him functional and sane.

  Seven years before, back when Cade worked for the Boston police department, he’d come face to face with a supernatural entity he’d come to know as the Adversary. That encounter had scarred his body and his soul, and had left him with a few unique abilities. He was about to use one of them now.

  Cade called it his Gift, though for years he had considered it more a curse than a benefit. Still, there was no denying its usefulness at times like this. By touching an object with his bare hands, Cade could read the psychic impressions that had been left on it by the last person to handle it. Thoughts and feelings poured out in his head as if he were actually experiencing them. They didn’t last long, a few seconds at most, and the impressions faded from the object over time so that after forty-eight hours or so he was unable to get anything worthwhile from them. But if he got to the object in time, he could learn a tremendous amount of useful information.

  If he used his Gift on the deceased, he could “experience” their last moments just as they had. If Martin had gotten a glimpse of his attacker, Cade would see the same thing. In addition, he’d have access to whatever Martin was thinking at the time, allowing for an even greater understanding.

  The technique wasn’t without its dangers, however, for Cade not only saw what the deceased had seen, but experienced it as well. If the priest had been scared, Cade would be scared. If the priest had been injured, Cade would feel his pain; his body would react as if he himself had been injured. Occasionally the wounds themselves would manifest on his body, which made every use of his Gift a potentially deadly one.

  Riley would be his backup. If it looked like Cade was in trouble, he would break the connection by pulling Cade away from the body. That was usually enough to prevent further harm, though occasionally more forceful measures were required. Cade hoped today wouldn’t be one of those times.

  With a final nod to Riley, Cade reached out and touched Father Martin’s face.

  Darkness.

  The sense of being followed, no, hunted, as he scrambled up a long incline, the rocks sharp against the flesh of his hands.

  Had to warn them.

  Had to warn them all before it was too late!

  His breath came hard and heavy, his ankle hurt where he’d twisted it earlier, but he dared not stop. If he did, they’d kill him. There was no question in his mind.

  A strange baying sound reached his ears and his heart leapt into his throat. It wouldn’t be long now; they’d released the hounds.

  Darkness.

  Inside the church.

  The feel of the holy wafer on his tongue.

  Figures moving in the darkness around him, holding his arms out to the sides, the altar steps hard against his knees, but he had eyes only for the crucifix on the wall above the altar before him.

  Pain ripped through his body, but he did all he could to ignore it, focusing on the message he had to pass on.

  The cross, Captain.

  You must find the cross!

  The image of a red, Templar cross swam before his eyes and he concentrated on it, fighting the pain, holding out as long as he could, the cross centered before him.

  Someone moved to stand in front of him and a new, savage pain ripped through his body, forcing him to lose his concentration, his eyes focusing on the man standing before him, the blond haired man who leaned forward into the light so that he could get a good look at his face as he slammed the knife into his chest…

  Riley hauled Cade away from the body of the priest, turning him away just as the other man vomited up a great gout of blood that splashed on the floor tiles at their feet as if it had been poured from a bucket high above their heads, blood from a wound that didn’t even exist. Cade coughed several more times, clearing his throat, spitting up the last of the blood that had filled his mouth in the same way that it had filled Martin’s, a result of the knife that had been driven into his chest by the man standing before him.

  A man Cade recognized.

  Bishop.

  When he could speak, he told Riley everything that he had seen, including the identity of Martin’s killer. They had the confirmation they needed. Bishop was back and he was up to no good.

  But Martin had left them a clue, a clue meant specifically for the Order, and if they could find it they might understand just what was going on.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The bar was a dive joint named Maxine’s. It stood on the corner of Sunset and Main, not too far from Mattapan Square. It wasn’t one of Burke’s usual hangouts; in fact, he rarely came to Mattapan, which was precisely why he chose the place. The chances anyone would recognize him were slim to none and he could get his business done and get out of there before anyone was the wiser.

  He could only find a spot a few blocks away, which ticked him off but what were you going to do? It wasn’t like he could park out front with his police placard on the dash. His car wouldn’t last ten minutes in this neighborhood. Grabbing his handheld off the seat beside him, he turned up his collar, walked up the street, and entered the bar.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he could see that his business partner was waiting for him in the last booth. He made his way through the crowd but rather than slide into the booth across from the other man, where he’d have his back to the door, he pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat in the aisle at the head of the table.

  The man he’d come to see grinned slyly as Burke settled down and the detective knew the set-up had been intentional. Probably trying to piss me off, put me off my game. He gave the other man his best Fuck You smile in return, just to show he wouldn’t be so easily rattled.

  He signaled the waitress for a beer, waited until she brought it, and then spent another minute watching her ass as she walked off again. When he felt he’d made his point, he turned back to the other man and said, “It’s done. He took the bait.”

  A smile spread across the face of the man opposite and that simple gesture accomplished what the gamesmanship before could not; Burke suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable. The urge to get the hell out of there was practically overwhelming and he went so far as to slide his chair back slightly before his rational mind regained control. Chill out, stupid, he thought. You aint’ got what you came here for yet.

  “And the patrol car?”

  Burke grunted. “I’ll make the call as soon as I’m out of here.”

  The blonde haired man shook his head. “Make it now, please.”

  It was far more an order than a request, but in that moment he decided to just do what needed to be done, get his money, and then get the hell out of there, before things got out of hand.

  The detective removed a handheld radio from his pocket, checked the frequency and then pushed the talk button.

  “Grearson? This is Bur
ke.”

  He waited a moment and then repeated the call.

  Burke was about to do it a third time when the radio crackled and the other man’s voice came back through it. “Grearson here, Detective. Sorry about that; had to take a piss.”

  Burke bit his tongue, forcing back the caustic comment that sprang to mind. Just get it done, he thought. Get it done and wash your hands of all of this.

  “We’ve got the eyes set up in the building across the street, so you can return to regular patrol. Thanks for your help.”

  “Ten four, Detective. Thanks for the overtime.”

  “Roger that, Grearson. Burke out.”

  The detective turned the radio off and returned it to the pocket of his coat. Returning his attention to the other man, he said, “I’ve pulled the black and white off the site. They shouldn’t have any trouble getting inside the church now.”

  “Very good. I believe that completes our arrangement then.”

  Burke sneered. “Not quite. There’s still the matter of my pay.”

  Blondie chuckled. “Ah yes, your thirty pieces of silver.” He took a small gym bag off the seat next to him and shoved it across the table at Burke.

  The bag was unzipped so the detective pulled the flaps open and peered inside. The bag was full of bundles of cash, 100s wrapped in red rubber bands as if fresh from the mint. Burke reached inside, picked a random bundle from deeper in the bag and, without lifting it above the confines of the bag itself, flipped through it, making certain that they were all bills and not stacks of paper wrapped in loose cash.

  Satisfied with what he saw, he stood, zipped the bag, and addressed his companion.

  “Looks like our business is done. If I see you in my district again, I’ll arrest you on sight, understand?”

  Blondie didn’t say anything, just grinned that unsettling smile, and Burke decided it was time to get out of there. He grabbed the bag, made his way back through the crowd and headed down the street toward his car.

  He was almost there when the voice came out of the darkness.

  “Whooo-wee! Lookey what we got here, boys. What you doing in this neighborhood after dark whitey?”

  Several dark forms stepped out of the alley in front of him, blocking his way.

  Burke stared disdainfully at the youths. There were five of them, maybe six, not a one older than their late teens. All of them were black, which explained the racial comment.

  Damned punks.

  Out loud, he said, “I’m a cop and unless all of you want to spend the night in lockup being somebody’s bubba, I suggest you get the fuck out of my way.”

  No one moved.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Burke said and drew his firearm, pointing it at the group’s leader. Now he was pissed. First that idiot in the bar and now these punks? Doesn’t anybody remember how to show their betters the respect they deserve? He’d had enough. “Back off or I’ll blow your stupid heads off!” he said.

  The only answer was the sharp sound of the slides on several handguns being jacked back.

  Oh shit, Burke had time to think, and then everything went to hell.

  The detective managed to get off the first two shots. He wasn’t all that bad with a firearm, either, putting the leader down with a double tap to the head before the other man could even squeeze the trigger.

  But it was five to one and the street punks knew what it was that Burke was carrying in that leather bag he held in his left hand and wanted it, wanted it all, and if some of their number got hurt in the bargain, well then, they’d just have to live with that. More dough for the survivors. With that kind of dough they could set themselves up for a long time to come…

  The end was never in doubt, though Burke did manage to take three of them with him before he succumbed to his wounds and collapsed onto the street. He’d been hit, eight, maybe ten times, and he knew he had only seconds to live. Already his arms and legs were going numb, his vision starting to grey out around the edges.

  The survivors hauled the bag out of his grasp and he dimly heard the slap of their sneakers against the pavement as they raced away into the darkness, leaving him lying there alone, bleeding out.

  Wait, not alone, he thought, as someone stepped out of the dark mouth of the alley to his left.

  Help, he tried to say, but all that came out was a thin gurgle and a mouthful of fresh blood. He turned his head, letting the blood dribble out onto the street beneath him, and when he turned it back again he found Blondie standing over him.

  “Don’t you read your Bible, Burke? Judas doesn’t escape his fate.”

  There was that smile again and then the blonde haired man dropped to the pavement atop him and Burke knew no more.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After leaving the Morgue Annex, Cade and Riley rejoined the other two men at the hotel room they’d checked into a few blocks from the church. Cade filled them in with what they had discovered.

  “So now what?” asked Duncan.

  “Martin left something in the church for us to find. We’ve got to find a way to get inside and take a look around, without the police hanging around.”

  “That’s not going to be easy,” Riley said and Cade agreed. They just didn’t have any choice. They had to get inside that church.

  As it turned out, things were far easier than any of them expected. On their first drive-by, they discovered the patrol car had been taken off the rectory and subsequent passes didn’t reveal the telltale presence of a police stake-out anywhere around the property.

  The foursome parked a few blocks away and then made their way back up the street in pairs, passing between the rectory and the church to reach the rear entrance. Olsen pulled out his lock picks and got to work. It took him less than a minute to breach the structure and they were inside with, they hoped, no one the wiser.

  From there, they quickly got to work.

  *** ***

  “It has to be here somewhere!”

  They’d been searching for two hours and still hadn’t found anything remotely resembling the red Templar cross that Cade had seen in his vision. They’d examined the pews, looking to see if the symbol had been carved into the surface. They’d searched each and every panel of the stained glass windows, wrongly assuming that something so bright would be hidden among things that were equally so. There, too, they’d come up empty, however. Riley had even used a set of binoculars to get a close look at the entire ceiling and still they’d had nothing.

  Now they sat together at the edge of the altar platform, trying to decide on their next move. None of them doubted that there was something here to find. Cade’s visions had never been wrong. But sometimes they had been more than a touch ambiguous and this certainly seemed to qualify as one of those times. Each of them were as frustrated as Cade was at this point.

  “Maybe we’re being too literal.”

  Cade turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  Olsen frowned, searching for the words to say what he meant. “It’s like this. Martin obviously knew someone was after him. Might have even known that they were aware of you and possibly the Order as well, right?”

  “Right. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Well, then, think about it. Put yourself in Martin’s shoes. If you knew someone was after you, knew that you had vital information that had to be passed on regardless of what happened to you personally, would you have left something in plain sight for anyone to find? Especially a symbol that the enemy might recognize?”

  Cade frowned. “Of course not.”

  “But that’s what we’ve been looking for,” said Olsen. “We are assuming that the cross you saw was something Martin was looking at in the final moments of his life, but what if that’s not the case? What if he were simply focused on the Order itself? What if his hope for rescue simply translated into a mental image of the symbol of his rescuers?”

  Cade had to admit it was possible, but in this case, unlikely. He couldn’t prove it, but he’d had the
distinct sense that Martin had been trying to pass him a message and whatever that message was, it was linked to a red cross.

  He glanced around the interior of the church, trying not to focus on anything in particular. Maybe Olsen was right; maybe they were being too literal.

  His gaze took in the rows of pews before him and then moved on to the organ player’s booth above them. He pivoted when he sat, turned his attention to the altar itself. He stared hard at the crucifix hanging on the wall behind it, let his gaze wander over the cloth-covered tabernacle in the rear corner, moved on to the lectern, then the plaque representing one of the Stations of the Cross on the wall nearby…

  Wait.

  He turned back.

  Something about the tabernacle…

  Then he had it. The tabernacle was a symbol of the Holy of Holies, the sacred chamber at the heart of King Solomon’s Temple. It was accessible only once a year and then only by the High Priest, for it was the place where God himself resided.

  Similarly, the Knights Templar hadn’t always been known as such. Once, long ago, the Order had been called another, more formal name.

  The Poor Knights of Christ of the Temple of Solomon.

  The Temple, or the modern day version, the tabernacle, was the place where the Church and the Order intersected.

  That had to be it!

  Cade jumped to his feet, startling the others. He crossed the room and pulled back the cloth that covered the tabernacle. There, in the very center of the small gold door that allowed access to the storage space inside, was a keyhole outlined in red.

  A keyhole in the shape of a Templar cross.

  “Good for you, old man,” Cade whispered.

  The small “door” to the tabernacle was locked but that was only a minor deterrent to Cade. Now was not the time for niceties, he knew. He drew his combat knife from the sheath in his boot and was preparing to wedge the door open when Olsen interrupted.

  “What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

  “What’s it look like?” Cade replied. “I’m going to open the door.”

  “With that? Like hell you are!” Olsen pushed him out of the way and Cade watched with not a little amusement as the other man bent over and examined the lock. Satisfied with whatever it was he saw, Olsen removed a small black leather case from a pocket of his fatigue pants and unzipped it, selecting two small metal tools from inside it. He stuck the ends of both into the lock, fished around with them for a couple of seconds, and then, with a satisfied grunt, removed them.