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

by David S. Brody

  They took off immediately, flying toward the setting sun visible in the southwestern sky, the jet’s speed almost keeping pace with the rotation of the earth to create a seemingly never-ending sunset. Turning his body in his seat so Vincent couldn’t see what he was doing, Cam removed the picture of Amanda from his wallet. Was she okay? Frightened, no doubt. But was she actually being abused? By the time they began their descent an hour and a half later the sun was just beginning to kiss the horizon. Cam munched on an energy bar; he needed to pay attention to his blood sugar even as he focused on rescuing Amanda. Fifteen minutes later, and 25,000 feet lower, the glow of dusk illuminated their landing at a small airfield surrounded by miles of flat farm land, the landscape checkerboarded by dozens of narrow access roads cut into the crop fields.

  As the jet rolled to a stop in front of a simple rectangular hangar building, the maroon cockpit curtain opened. A long-armed man wearing a light blue golf shirt sat slouched in the leather copilot seat. He smiled and gave Cam the same salute he had offered at yesterday’s breakfast. “No doubt you have deduced that I am Jefferson January,” he wheezed.

  Cam studied him. His adversary appeared underinflated, as if the air had slowly leaked from his once-robust body and his shell had folded in on itself. His eyes, blue and dilated, protruded from a graying face marked by sharp crags, like bedrock blasted away alongside a superhighway. A few loose strands of gray hair were combed neatly back from his forehead. He pulled himself into a standing position and pushed his tall but bent frame past the curtain. “I suggest we get right to work.”

  “Where’s Amanda?” Cam remained seated. As January approached Cam noticed a pungent odor, sort of the way old, wet grass clippings smelled as they began to decay. When he was a child, his cat died of leukemia and Cam had noticed that same smell in the weeks before her death.

  January ignored the question. “Follow me. We have much to do.” He coughed into a handkerchief as Vincent pushed open the cabin door, then used the back of the handkerchief to dab his brow. “I need your help. You want to ensure Miss Spencer’s safety. The sooner we get our work done the sooner we both get what we want. It really is a simple equation.”

  Cam remained in his chair as the pilot followed Vincent out of the plane. January continued. “I am one hundred percent certain European explorers have been on this continent for over two thousand years, since before Jesus. And I have the artifacts to prove it.” He gestured toward the open door, sighing as he saw Cam refusing to follow. “We both know, Mr. Thorne, that at some point you are going to get out of that seat, follow me down those stairs and be suitably impressed by my artifacts.”

  “Not true.” Cam sprung from his chair and spun January by the shoulder, pulling him away from the door, and shoved him face-first against the concave bulkhead. He pushed against the man’s back, pinning him in an awkward, arched position. The fury of the past day coursed through him, but the attack was a calculated one: Cam wanted to test the resolve of his enemy. “It’s possible instead I’ll squeeze your neck until your face turns purple.” Vincent and the pilot had disembarked, so it was no idle threat.

  January craned his neck to peer over his shoulder and offered a small, wet smile, his teeth long and yellowed. “No doubt you could. And no doubt you won’t. In the end, you will do the rational thing. Which is why I saw no need for Mr. Vincent to stay. Now release me, Mr. Thorne. As I said, we have work to do.”

  The response had been logical and fearless. January understood that even if Cam could overpower him, Cam was still stuck in Illinois and Amanda would still be his captive. Cam shifted his weight and stepped back, releasing his adversary. January would not be easily intimidated. For now Cam had no choice but to play the dying man’s game.

  Amanda allowed the hot water to pour over her body, washing away dirt and sweat and more than a few tears. Not matter how hot the water, her body still shuddered periodically. Even worse, when she breathed deeply or turned suddenly a sharp pain shot through her core—the flashlight blow may have cracked a rib. Thankfully there was no blood in her urine. But worse than the pain was the fear that numbed her core. She wanted to be home, sitting in front of the fire playing Scrabble with Cam. Or kayaking on the lake. Or jogging along a wooded trail. Anything but … this.

  Surely Cam had gone to the police, and surely he was trying to find her. But how seriously did police take these kinds of missing person reports, especially in a place like Foxwoods where alcohol and gambling frequently contributed to lovers’ quarrels? She exhaled cautiously, wincing. Other than continuing to befriend Astarte, she really had no plan for escape. And she still had no clue what January wanted from her.

  She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her teeth chattering. Eliza waited in the hallway. Bowing slightly, she handed Amanda her shoes, sweatpants, a sweatshirt and a new pair of socks and white underpants. “I’m washing your clothes. They should be dry in a half-hour.”

  Amanda crossed her arms over her chest, swallowing the stab of pain. “What do you want from me?” It was tough to appear menacing while shivering in a towel, but Amanda hoped her anger would come through.

  Eliza’s painted, small-toothed smile remained frozen on her face. “Astarte is doing her lessons. She should be back shortly.” With that, she motioned Amanda to return to Astarte’s bedroom across the hall, offered a small curtsey and walked away.

  There was little chance there was anything in a young girl’s bedroom that could be used as a weapon, but after dressing Amanda rifled through the drawers and bookcases looking for something that might come in handy. The best she came up with was some twine. She shuddered at the thought of wrapping the rope around Astarte’s neck, even as a bluff. But she stuffed it in her pocket—at some point she might have to do something drastic to win her freedom.

  Astarte burst in a few minutes later. “I brought you a cookie. Aunt Eliza didn’t want me to but I insisted.” With two hands she held out a sugar cookie balanced on a napkin.

  Amanda couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.” She gestured at a cot that had been brought into the room. “Am I meant to sleep here tonight?”

  Astarte grinned. “Yes. Usually Aunt Eliza sleeps with me. But she snores.”

  “I’ll do my best not to.” Amanda sat on the cot. “Astarte, do you have any family other than Eliza and Mr. January? Cousins or anything?”

  “No. They took care of me after my mom died. I was only two. That’s when we moved to Connecticut.” Her deep blue eyes clouded, but Amanda needed to learn more about the young princess.

  “You mean you didn’t always live here?”

  “We used to live in Salty Lake.”

  “Do you mean Salt Lake City?”

  The girl grinned. “Oops, yes. But I don’t remember it.”

  “So you’re not part of the Pequot tribe?”

  “No. Uncle Jefferson is friends with the Pequot people—he’s helping them with their museum. But I’m Mandan.”

  “Mandan?” That explained the blue eyes. Native American legend and oral history was one of the best sources of evidence of pre-Columbian visitation to America, so Amanda had read up on Native American history. The Mandan were the tribe of so-called White Indians. Lewis and Clark visited them in North Dakota in the early 1800s at the behest of President Jefferson who, because of the Mandan’s European-like appearance and lifestyle, wondered if they might be one of the Lost Tribes of Israel. Others believed them to be descended from Prince Madoc, a 12th-century Welsh explorer said to have found his way into the central part of North America. Whatever their origins, the tribe was largely wiped out by smallpox in the mid-1800s; the few remaining members merged into other tribes. “Aren’t the Mandan extinct?”

  “Like the dinosaurs?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Which means they hardly needed a princess. Unless Astarte’s destiny was to rule peoples other than the Mandan.

  The girl furrowed her brow. “That’s silly, Miss Amanda. I’m not dead. I’m right here next t
o you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Cam followed January through the terminal building marked “Olney-Noble Airport.” Vincent waited at the curb, his red Chevy pickup a beacon in the fading light. Cam noted it was a full-size, four-wheel drive model with the body riding high above 17-inch tires. Apparently they would be going off-road.

  “Would you like me to drive, Mr. January?” The guard eyed Cam suspiciously.

  “No. I’ll drive. You stay here. Mr. Thorne and I have much to discuss. And much to see.”

  Cam climbed into the passenger seat. Too late now to turn back. Vincent pulled out a blindfold. “Should I put this on him?”

  January shook his head. “No. I’m hoping Mr. Thorne is so impressed by what he sees that he wants to come back many times.” He offered a wet smile. “To do that he’ll need to know the way.”

  They drove for about twenty minutes, January’s crooked body hunched over the steering wheel, his claw-like hands guiding the truck with surprising competence. The land looked much like it did from the sky—flat and colorless, the monotony interrupted only by an occasional farmhouse. As if reading Cam’s thoughts, January spoke. “I’m not old, Mr. Thorne, I’m just dying.” There was no self-pity in the comment. But Cam sensed an almost fanatic resolve in the man, a belief that true greatness was within his grasp if only he could survive long enough to make a final desperate stretch and ensnare it in his bony grasp. Cam still had no idea if his adversary was lucid or delusional. Either way, it seemed the best way to ensure Amanda’s safety was to continue to placate him.

  January snapped on a gospel music station and sang along, loud and off-key but full of passion. When, mercifully, the song ended, January spoke. “We are in southern Illinois, approximately 120 miles due east of St. Louis, not far from the Indiana border. Curiously, this area is known as Little Egypt. Some say it’s because of the fertile farm land, similar to the Nile Delta.” He shook his head. “That seems like a stretch to me. I believe it’s because of the many Egyptian-like artifacts found in the area.”

  Cam had never been in this part of the country. “Which is why we’re here.”

  “Precisely.”

  It was now dark, almost 6:00 local time. January turned onto a dirt road cutting through muddy fields of what had been stalks of corn. January coughed into his handkerchief. “I only come here at night.” He flicked off his headlights as they bounced along. “We are, or soon will be, trespassing. I apologize in advance if some angry farmer plants a pitchfork in your backside. I usually wait until after midnight, but we are short on time.”

  A few times January careened off the road, but he quickly corrected his line and continued along, occasionally turning left or right as he made his way deeper along the maze-like route. January took a deep breath. “Have you ever studied the Burrows Cave artifacts?”

  The artifacts weren’t really relevant to Cam’s Templar research, so he hadn’t paid much attention to them. “No.” But he guessed they hadn’t flown to Olney, Illinois just to tour the corn fields.

  “In some ways, that is surprising. You are one of the leading researchers of early exploration of America. Burrows Cave is as important to that study as the Kensington Rune Stone and the Newport Tower. I myself have spent years studying them.”

  “Is that where the map stone you sent me came from?”

  “Yes. That and about 5,000 other artifacts.” January wiped his chin with the back of his sleeve and took a deep breath. “In the 1980s a truck driver named Russell Burrows was walking through the woods looking for arrowheads and Civil War artifacts and stumbled into an underground cavern.” A thick row of trees appeared dimly in the moonlight beyond the farmland out Cam’s window; apparently some of the area remained uncultivated. January made a quick right turn, cutting through a narrow cornfield and heading straight for the wooded area.

  January continued. “The cave was filled with carved stones, as if it served as some kind of ancient repository. The carvings reflected a hodgepodge of eastern Mediterranean cultures—Phoenician, Egyptian, early Christian, Jewish, Roman, Northern African. The one thing the artifacts had in common was they all dated from about 2,000 to 2,500 years ago. Over the next few years, Burrows removed thousands of artifacts from the cave.”

  Angry as he was, Cam was curious about the artifacts. “Didn’t he show them to anyone?”

  “He tried. In fact, he brought them to the state university, and also to the state archeologist. I don’t have to tell you how that often goes—they laughed in his face.”

  Cam nodded. The find would have been so outside the scope of what mainstream archeologists believed about American history that they would have dismissed it almost reflexively. As a group, archeologists were the most close-minded people Cam had ever met. His comment to the Freemasons about archeologists putting their fingers in their ears and yelling hoax was only slightly hyperbolic. Even so, that didn’t mean the Burrows Cave find was legit. “I have to believe that even the most skeptical archeologist would at least take a look at Burrows’ pieces. Why did they dismiss them?”

  “There was nothing suspicious about the pieces, other than the fact they belonged along the shores of the Mediterranean and were found instead in Illinois. But the experts all wanted Burrows to take them to the cave so they could see the artifacts in situ. You know how archeologists are—they don’t trust anything they don’t pull out of the ground themselves. Not that they’re likely to ever find anything sitting on their asses in some office. Well, anyway, Burrows couldn’t show them the cave. He was trespassing, like us, sneaking in at night to haul artifacts out. Including a few gold pieces. And there were some other gold figurines in the cave that were too big for him to get out. Obviously he wanted to keep those for himself. So he never showed anyone the cave. And so nobody believed it was real.”

  Who would put gold in a cave as part of a hoax? “What, did they think he was making this stuff in his basement?”

  “Exactly. Not that they had any evidence.” January flicked on the headlights and angled the truck from side to side, apparently using the lights to locate some kind of landmark in the trees. “Ah, there it is.” He veered left and stopped in a small gap between two trees, one of which had a bicycle reflector nailed at eye level to its trunk. “Come on. Follow me.” He slipped a daypack over his shoulders before reaching into the back seat and pulling out a shotgun. “Remington 1100, semi-automatic,” he announced. “I’m not a big fan of pitchforks.”

  Stooped as he was, January showed surprising agility and energy, using the shotgun to swat away branches as he pushed through the underbrush and down a slight slope into the woods. They walked a quarter mile along a faded path, the topography less flat than the farm land they had passed through, the crunching of their feet on the carpet of leaves masking the nocturnal sounds of the forest. Just as on the plane, Cam could easily have overpowered his adversary, even with the shotgun, but then what? Instead he followed dutifully, January stopping occasionally to pan his flashlight in an arc before plowing along. “In the summer the mosquitoes are unbearable. I don’t know how Burrows did it, coming out here almost every night to collect artifacts.”

  January was breathing hard and sweating even in the cool night air, the hike obviously a huge strain on his system. But his eyes shone with a feverish excitement as he walked in a circle at the crest of a ridge, kicking at the ground. The ridge overlooked a valley, and in the distance the moonlight glistened on the surface of a small river. Cam recalled the map stone and the series of rivers leading to the cave marked on the map.

  After a few minutes of kicking the ground January dropped to his knees, rested his shotgun against a tree stump and brushed away a pile of leaves and branches. “Good. Nobody’s disturbed it.” His flashlight reflected off a round PVC tube sticking six inches out of the ground. “Took me nine years to find the cave. Still haven’t found a way inside. Burrows dynamited the entrance shut and covered it with dirt.”

  “Why?”

  “Becaus
e he’s a smart S.O.B. He removed a fortune in gold and also a few thousand artifacts. If the landowner ever found out he would have accused Burrows of theft. But the landowner never knew he was here, never even knew there was a cave on his land. Still doesn’t. By dynamiting the entrance, Burrows made sure nobody would ever find the crime scene.”

  “A victimless crime. So how did you find the cave?”

  “I had a pretty good idea of the general area based on local scuttlebutt, but we were still talking hundreds of acres. So I brought in some mining experts. Ground penetrating radar. Seismic and resistivity testing. Hydrology maps. Basically the same kinds of things a mining company would do before drilling. Once we thought we found a promising spot, we drilled. Ever play Battleship when you were a kid? Eventually, if you take enough shots, you’re bound to hit something. Cost me a fortune because we had to sneak out here at night, then pay the workers to keep quiet about it.” He looked up at Cam. “Some that wouldn’t keep quiet had to be dealt with in other ways.”

  January was obsessed, desperate and on a mission from God—no doubt he would not hesitate to kill those who crossed him. How far would Cam have to go with this to ensure Amanda’s safety?

  “I finally found the cave a few months ago,” January continued. “But cancer found me around the same time. And the land owner refuses to sell; over time I could convince him, but that’s the one thing I don’t have.”

  January removed his backpack and bungee-corded his flashlight to an overhanging branch. From the pack he pulled out a stapler–sized plastic fish. The fish was attached to a black power cord; the other end connected to a video monitor he placed on a boulder near the PVC pipe. January had taped a small flashlight to the bottom of the fish. “This is a basic ice fishing camera. You drop it in through a hole in the ice and the image comes up on the monitor.” He flicked on the power switch and flashlight and lowered the fish down the PVC pipe. “Pretty appropriate, since the fish is a symbol of Jesus.” He barked out a short laugh. “I guess that makes me the Fisher King of the King Arthur legends, old and injured, and you my Galahad come to help me find the Holy Grail.”