Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2)

by David S. Brody

  “No reason.” Salazar coughed. “Also, are you guys married yet?”

  “Engaged.”

  “Oh.”

  Cam wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work. “So what next? Do you need money?”

  “I’ll drive up there in a few hours, call you when I arrive. Go to your meeting with January and see what he wants. As for money, my fee is a thousand dollars per day, plus expenses.” He paused. “So far nobody’s ever stiffed me.”

  Cam arrived at the museum a few minutes before three o’clock. He parked in the fire lane next to a tow zone sign and slammed his door shut—a feeble but heartfelt statement of defiance.

  A man who looked like he should be guarding the President strode toward him, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes at Cam’s choice of parking spaces. “My name’s Vincent. This way, Mr. Thorne.” Stiff, clean-cut. White shirt and navy slacks—a professional, unlike the two punks from the shuttle bus. He led Cam into the soaring museum atrium, passed the ladies room where Amanda had been abducted, and down a hallway to an unmarked door. “I’ll need you to step inside.” He pushed the door open; lights went on automatically.

  Cam peered into an empty conference room. “Where’s January?”

  “As I said, please step inside. I’m going to search you. Then I’ll bring you to Mr. January. Please empty your pockets.”

  Cam sighed. “Whatever.” He stepped inside and dropped his cell phone, keys, wallet and chewing gum on the table. From a pocket in his windbreaker he removed a couple of granola bars and a case containing his insulin supplies.

  Using a wand similar to the ones they used at airports, Vincent scanned Cam. He froze as the wand passed over Cam’s left hip. “What’s that?”

  “Insulin pump.” Cam lifted his coat to show the pager-sized device clipped to his waistband. “I’m not taking it off.”

  Vincent nodded. “Okay. Follow me.”

  Vincent—was that his first name or last?—led Cam back down the hallway, through the atrium and back outside.

  “Where’s January?” Cam asked.

  “I’m taking you to him.” They approached a black Ford Explorer.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting January at the museum.”

  Vincent shrugged. “My orders were to search you and then bring you to Mr. January.” He held the door open.

  Cam got in. For now, January was calling the shots.

  Vincent followed Route 2 back to the interstate and turned north on Route 95. Cam had assumed January was holding Amanda someplace on the Pequot land, but they were now far outside its borders. “Why the interstate?”

  “Like I said, I’m taking you to Mr. January.”

  Less than five minutes later they crossed the state border into Rhode Island, and ten minutes after that whizzed by a highway sign for T.F. Green Airport in Providence. Cam pulled out his cell phone, surprised Vincent had allowed him to keep it. Apparently January didn’t feel threatened by Cam, which itself was a bit disquieting. Cam texted Salazar. “On way to Providence airport. Should I get on plane?”

  Salazar texted back immediately. “I think not much choice. My buddy works at airport. Give me 5.”

  A few minutes later another text arrived. “January has jet on runway. Destination Olney, Illinois.” Cam deleted the texts.

  He had guessed right; they were headed to the airport. But why Olney, Illinois?

  Amanda sat cross-legged on a quilt on the floor across from Astarte, both of them sipping imaginary tea from small porcelain tea cups. The chemical seemed to have left her system—the nausea had abated and her teeth no longer chattered. But the cold fear that had first washed over her in the museum bathroom remained; every few minutes she shivered, her body attempting to warm itself through muscle burn.

  The room, windowless other than a couple of sky lights, ran along the front of the garage building, the bed and a dresser tucked under the sloped roofline. It was a typical young girl’s bedroom, except that the art on the walls—a poster of Pocahontas from the Disney movie and a framed quilt featuring a Native American medicine wheel—reflected her Native American culture. That and the fact that a guard stood outside the door.

  Amanda pointed to a backpack-like object hanging above Astarte’s bed. “What’s that?”

  The girl stood on her bed and pulled the item off its hook. “It’s a cradleboard. We use them to hold our babies.” Astarte slid a doll into a flowered pouch attached to a two-foot-high wooden slab and leaned the polished slab against a wall; it stood almost vertical, on small legs. “This way the baby can see the world.”

  Amanda nodded. It made sense. Why should a baby always have to look up into the sky?

  Astarte then slipped a leather strap around her forehead and hung the board down her back. “The mom can also carry her baby like this.” She smiled. “But it gives me a headache.”

  Amanda spent a couple hours playing with Astarte, figuring her best chance of escape was to somehow win the girl’s trust. They chatted as they played, Amanda learning that the girl did not have any friends other than a few kids she saw at church and was home-schooled by Eliza. Her favorite toys were her collection of Native American dolls, but when she grew bored with them she downloaded a video game called SimCity to an Apple computer on her desk and showed Amanda how to create and manage virtual cities. “If I’m going to be the princess, I need to know about buildings,” she explained as she tinkered with the city’s infrastructure. Advanced stuff for an eight-year-old, but might she be better off in the long run riding a bike to the park with some friends?

  “How did you get so good at computers?” Amanda asked.

  “Uncle Jefferson taught me.” She pulled out what looked to be some type of smart phone. “Aunt Eliza says I’m too young to have a phone but Uncle Jefferson says I need to learn about tech-…” She swallowed, making room in her mouth for the big word. “Technology.”

  Amanda also learned that January and Eliza were not her real aunt and uncle, but had somehow gained custody of her when her mother died when Astarte was a toddler. In fact, Eliza and January were siblings, not husband and wife. The girl didn’t seem abused or neglected in any traditional sense of the word, though the isolation—not to mention the princess thing—was hardly a recipe for a healthy upbringing.

  “I saw you kiss Mr. Thorne at the museum. He’s very handsome. Are you two going to get married, like Ariel and Eric in Little Mermaid?”

  “How do you know his name?”

  Astarte shrugged. “Uncle Jefferson talks about him a lot. He needs Mr. Thorne’s help.”

  That explained why she had been abducted. Not that it justified it in any way—why not just ask for help if they needed it? Amanda forced a smile. “In any event, I agree, he is very handsome. And I do intend to marry him.” She studied the girl, whose view of the world seemed inordinately shaped by children’s movies. “But I love him because of who he is inside.” She moved closer. “Let me tell you a story. When I first met Cameron, I had a horrible rash on my face from being out in the sun too long. But he still liked me, even though I looked like a swamp monster.”

  Astarte nodded. “Sort of like Beauty and the Beast, right?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “As a princess, I’ll have to marry a prince someday. Probably someone who Uncle Jefferson selects for me. That’s what happens with princesses.”

  Amanda considered this for a moment. “It’s generally not a good thing to marry for reasons other than love, Astarte. For example, what if the man your uncle chooses for you fancies fishing and you do not—what would you do together?”

  The girl put her finger on her chin and raised her eyes, as she seemed to do when weighing matters of importance. “Why,” she said suddenly, “that’s easy. I’d learn to fish so I could go with him.”

  Amanda couldn’t help but respond with a small laugh. “Useful attitude, that.”

  During their tea party, Amanda could hear a television down the hall. Some preacher was making
an impassioned plea for his audience to repent and be rescued by Jesus. Amanda would settle for just being rescued.

  “Is the tea making you feel better, Miss Amanda?”

  “Yes, much, thank you.” Eliza had made her an actual cup, plus served them both egg salad sandwiches for lunch. She took another imaginary sip. She had spent enough time winning the girl’s trust. She stood. “I think it’s time for me to leave now. Can you please show me out?”

  Astarte frowned. “I’m sorry, but you must stay. Uncle Jefferson insists on it. And he always gets what he wants.”

  “I see.” Amanda tried another approach. “When I was a little girl my mother always sent me outside to play after lunch. I especially liked hopscotch.”

  Astarte’s face brightened. “I love hopscotch!”

  Amanda stood and reached for the girl’s hand. “Well, let’s go out and play.” It was a long-shot, but she didn’t exactly have a lot of options. Leaning down, she continued in a whisper. “But let’s leave Eliza and the other adults here. It’ll be just us two girls, right then?”

  They grabbed their jackets and Astarte reached for a piece of chalk as she opened the door. The guard sat in a kitchen chair in the hallway. “Judith, you stay here,” Astarte said. “We’re going outside to play.”

  The sentry’s eyes narrowed as she weighed her options. She had a small nose and mouth that made her face seem too petite for her oversized body. “Your uncle told me to stay with Miss Spencer.” She stood.

  Astarte crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And I’m telling you to stay here.” She glared up at the woman for a second before taking Amanda’s hand and leading her down a hallway to the kitchen of the above-garage apartment.

  “Aunt Eliza, we are going outside,” she repeated. “You and Judith can stay here.”

  Eliza, seated in front of a small television, shifted in her chair. “Are you certain Uncle would approve?”

  “Yes,” she said imperiously. “He likes me to get exercise.”

  A sliding glass door off the kitchen opened onto a small deck with a wooden staircase leading to the back yard below. Amanda’s heart raced as the girl heaved the door open—was the guard really going to obey Astarte and let them go outside alone? And was Eliza really going to allow it? She listened for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Nothing.

  Ten seconds later they stood in the backyard, a grassy area a little smaller than a tennis court surrounded by trees on three sides and the garage on the fourth. Amanda peered through the trees, wondering what lay beyond. No doubt the guard was watching from a window above. But Amanda was a fast runner, an ex-gymnast who could still run a 5K race in well under 20 minutes. Not that she had a plan once she raced into the woods—she had no cell phone, didn’t know where she was, and wasn’t equipped to spend a November night in the wilderness. She shivered again.

  Astarte skipped over to a concrete slab and began drawing a hopscotch board. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss Amanda,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you want to try to run away, I won’t say anything. But I do wish you’d stay.” A small tear glistened on the girl’s eyelash.

  Amanda crouched down so she was at eye level and took Astarte’s hands. Could she leave this lonely girl alone with these odd people? “It was wrong of your uncle to bring me here without my permission. You said he did so because he needs our help. Do you know why?”

  The girl shook her head, her pigtails swinging back and forth.

  “Well, I promise I will come back as soon as I can,” Amanda said as Astarte sniffled. “Do you know what’s beyond those trees?”

  “No. I’ve never gone back there. Aunt Eliza said there are bears in the woods.”

  No doubt lions and tigers as well. Amanda took a deep breath. “Well, wish me luck. I’ll return as soon as I am able.” She kissed Astarte quickly on the cheek. “I had a splendid time playing with you today.”

  A quick stretch of her legs, another deep breath and she turned and sprinted across the open yard toward the woods. She half-expected a shot to ring out, the guard taking aim at her from up on the balcony above like in those old World War II prisoner camp escape movies. Crouching and running in a zigzag pattern she quickly reached the edge of the woods and leapt over a short stone wall into a dense thicket. Barbed branches pulled at her legs and bit at her ankles as she pushed deeper, the canopy of trees diffusing what little late afternoon light remained. She chose speed over stealth, grunting and thrashing through the brush, one hand in front of her face to protect her eyes. After stumbling twice she changed her stride, lifting her knees high to prevent being tripped up again. Her ears strained for the sound of pursuers, but she was making too much noise herself to hear anything other than her own labored breathing and the angry snarls and snaps of the undergrowth as she fought through it.

  She plowed along for almost a minute, the scratches and pricks scarring her skin just as hope grew in her heart. And then it was over. She almost ran face-first into a fence, the chain-links appearing seemingly out of nowhere in the darkened forest as she elbowed aside a tree branch. She got her arms up just in time, impaling the side of her wrist on barbed wire but fortunately sparing her eyes. “Damn!” She stopped, carefully twisted the rusted wire from her skin and peered up at the metal barrier. Probably eight feet high, with lines of barbed wire strung in loops along both the midpoint and the top to prevent anyone from attempting to climb over. Sucking on the blood seeping from her wrist, she walked along the fence line, kicking at the bottom, probing for an opening. But the fencing ran deep into the ground, the earth tamped down solid—she would need a shovel and a good hour of digging to make even the crudest of tunnels.

  Desperate, she ran along the perimeter of the fence. It continued for about 50 yards before making a right-angle turn back toward the garage. She reversed, ran back to her starting point plus another 20 yards and hit another right angle turn. Apparently the fence surrounded the entire garage property, equally effective at keeping visitors both in and out. That must be why the guard hadn’t come after her yet.

  But she couldn’t give up. The ground in this corner of the property was moist. She found a thick branch, dropped to her knees and stabbed at the soil beneath the fence, prying dirt away until she found the bottom row of the embedded chain links. Stabbing at the ground angrily, she loosened the dirt, scooping it away with a flat stone like a dog digging for a bone. After a couple of minutes she had dug a cavity the size of a cereal bowl beneath the barrier. Wedging the end of her branch as far under the fence as she could, she stood and pushed down on the branch, using it as a fulcrum to pry upward the bottom of the fence. It bent back a bit, but the bottom was too sharp for her to grab it firmly and really force it upward. She removed her tennis shoes and yanked off her sport socks, then rolled her socks into a ball and used them to pad her palms and fingers. Alternately working with the branch and her hands, she succeeded in raising the meshed fence a couple of inches and banked her gain by cramming a cobblestone between her branch and the sharp bottom of the fence. A cat could probably squeeze through now.

  Rolling to her feet, she slid her shoes back on, quickly found another thick branch and dug in again next to the first branch, prying the fence open another couple of inches and again securing her work with a small fieldstone. Blood ran down her wrist and onto her hand but she didn’t care. One more branch, plus another stone, and she had succeeded in wedging back a span of fence about 18 inches wide. Wide enough for her to squirm through once she made it deeper. Sweating profusely now, she rubbed a dirty hand across her brow and again rolled to her feet to find another branch—

  “That’s enough, honey.”

  Amanda’s entire body sagged. Judith stood over her, a steel flashlight held menacingly at her hip. The guard pointed her chin up toward a security camera mounted high on a nearby tree. “I figured I’d let you finish digging your little hole before I came to get you.”

  Amanda had been too focused on the fence to look for cameras. “How
very kind of you.”

  “It’d be easier for both of us if you walked. But I can drag your ass back to the compound if I have to.”

  Amanda stood. They were alone in the woods, and the guard no doubt had a cell phone. Judith seemed to sense her thoughts. “Don’t try anything cute.”

  They walked a few steps, Judith half a stride ahead, when suddenly the brawny woman pivoted and thrust the butt of the steel flashlight backward, deep into Amanda’s gut. Amanda didn’t feel anything for a second or two, then it was as if her entire body short-circuited. Her muscles spasmed and she flopped to the ground, her heart and lungs shutting down for a few seconds as if someone had hit the off button on her central nervous system. It hurt like nothing she had ever felt before, her entire innards screaming in agony. She had once fallen off the uneven bars and landed on her back in a gymnastic meet and it felt like an elephant was sitting on her chest, but this was many times worse. She writhed on the ground, coughing and gasping, unable to even focus her eyes, until slowly her internal organs restarted themselves and a bit of air and blood began to flow through her body. From a long way off, high above her, she heard Judith’s voice. “That’s for trying to escape. If you try it again, you best be sure you succeed.”

  The Explorer snaked its way into a back entrance to the airport, stopping near the tail of a mid-size jet with the markings ‘Learjet 45’ on its fuselage and a metal staircase leading to an open hatch. Vincent stepped out and motioned for Cam to follow. Cam checked his watch—almost four o’clock, the sun only a few degrees above the late November horizon. He zipped his windbreaker and trudged up the stairs.

  “As soon as you take a seat, we’ll be on our way,” Vincent said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “As I said, to meet Mr. January.”

  Four grey leather seats ran along each side of the jet. Cam took the front seat on the left, Vincent the second seat on the right, probably so he could keep an eye on Cam. A maroon curtain separated the cockpit from the cabin. “Is January up there?” Cam asked Vincent. Vincent merely shrugged and opened a fishing magazine.