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

by David S. Brody

  A MICHIGAN TABLET STONE

  The carvings were even more elaborate than the Burrows Cave stones. “Wait, you said the writing matches the Burrows Cave artifacts?” Cam said.

  “I did. But there’s more.” The host made no effort to hide his passion for this topic. “The Ohio Decalogue Stone and the Bat Creek Stone in Tennessee also support January’s theory. Smithsonian experts originally believed the Bat Creek stone, discovered in the 1880s, depicts Cherokee writing. But about a hundred years later an amateur historian turned it upside down and immediately recognized it as an early form of Hebrew writing. It reads, ‘Hail the Jews’ and the form of the script dates back to the first couple of centuries A.D.” Cam found an Internet image of this artifact as well.

  THE BAT CREEK STONE

  The host continued. “And the Ohio Decalogue Stone, found in a burial mound in 1860, displays the figure of Moses in the center of the stone with the text of the Ten Commandments inscribed along the perimeter. The script, again, is an ancient version of Hebrew. The burial mounds date roughly between 100 BC and 500 AD.” Cam, once more, found an online image.

  THE OHIO DECALOGUE STONE

  Cam had seen pictures of both these stones before, but they suddenly took on added import in light of January’s claims.

  “January also hinted at finding something up in the Catskill Mountains in New York, but he wouldn’t say what it was,” the host said.

  Cam had never heard of any finds in that area of New York. But it made sense that early explorers could have made their way up the Hudson River. “The Mormon Church doesn’t agree with January’s theory?”

  “Their experts are not much different than experts in the rest of the country. They were all taught that the ancient lands are in Central America, so that’s what they believe. No matter what the evidence says.” The host laughed. “Many of our listeners know how that works.”

  “Anyway, I’m curious if you or any of your listeners have an opinion about the Burrows Cave pieces.”

  “I know a geologist who’s examined hundreds of the carvings in his lab, including lots of January’s pieces. He has some questions about one or two of them, but for the most part he says the weathering patterns are consistent with ancient artifacts and there’s no evidence of modern tool usage.” He chuckled. “Not to mention that there are thousands of them. Even the most ambitious hoaxster would stop at a few hundred.”

  “I’m getting a little tired of the hoax explanations,” Cam said. The “hoax” refrain was the common response from the academic community when confronted with artifacts that didn’t fit neatly into their version of history.

  The host continued. “One of the things we don’t pay enough attention to in this country is Native American legend and oral history, the theme of tonight’s show. From what I’ve been told, the Yuchi tribe tells the story of a sealed mausoleum in southern Illinois containing gold and the archives of a lost people.”

  “Burrows took gold from the cave, right?” Cam asked.

  “Supposedly quite a bit. Which is another argument against it being a hoax. Who throws gold in a cave and waits for some stranger to find it?”

  Cam hung up. Sometimes things just boiled down to common sense.

  Astarte came bouncing into January’s kitchen at seven o’clock, a bit later than normal, and kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, Uncle Jefferson,” she said brightly.

  He smiled. “Did you oversleep, princess?” He had been up since four. No sense sleeping away the last hours of one’s life.

  She sipped at her orange juice. “Just a little. I was up thinking about what we talked about last night.”

  “Are you enjoying Miss Amanda?”

  She set her glass down. “Yes, but I do think it is wrong to keep her here if she wants to leave.”

  “I agree. But sometimes God requires us to do … difficult things in his service. I’m afraid this is one of those times.”

  She seemed to accept this. “Are you meeting with Mr. Thorne this morning?”

  “Yes. And I received some bad news late last night which makes obtaining Mr. Thorne’s cooperation even more crucial.” Bigelow, the Boston lawyer, had gotten cold feet and was no longer willing to champion January’s cause. For decades January had argued with historians in Salt Lake City that his artifacts proved the validity of the Book of Mormon, and for decades they had resisted his efforts because Mormon doctrine held that events described in the Book occurred in Central America, not in the Great Lakes region as January’s artifacts clearly proved. In fact, if they knew what January was up to they would excommunicate him. Whatever the reason for Bigelow’s change of heart, Cameron Thorne had become January’s last and best chance.

  Astarte nibbled on a bagel. “Can you tell me again how come I live with you and Aunt Eliza?”

  “Was Miss Amanda asking?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. You can tell her. It all started almost two hundred years ago when your people, the Mandan Indians, lived in North Dakota. Originally the Mandan lived further south and east, in the Ohio River Valley, but as the European settlers came they took the Indians’ land and pushed the tribes westward.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of them.”

  “Well, honey, that’s just the way the world is sometimes. When the Mandan first came to this country, they tried to push other people off their land. Back then the Mandan were called Lamanites, and the people they fought with were called Nephites.”

  “I thought the Mandan were called the White Indians.”

  “Yes, but that was later on. Originally they were called Lamanites.”

  “I’ve heard Aunt Eliza talk about Lamanites.”

  “Yes, their story is told in the Book of Mormon. But that is for another day. What is important for now is that the European settlers who came to North Dakota brought terrible diseases with them. One of them was called smallpox. The Mandan often traded with the settlers, which caused them to catch this disease. All of the Mandan in their villages in North Dakota died. But a few dozen Mandan were off on a trading mission when the sickness came and they survived. Most people don’t know about them.”

  “That’s what Miss Amanda thought. She said Mandan were … stinked.”

  He smiled “Extinct.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “At around this same time, in the middle of the 1800s, my people, the Mormons, were living in Illinois, in a city called Nauvoo. They met the surviving Mandan, who had no place to go, and invited them to live with them. That’s how my greatgrandfather met your great-great-great-grandmother.”

  “Were they friends?”

  He weighed the question. It was time for the girl to know the truth, or at least some of it. And he was running out of time to tell it. “More than friends. My great-grandfather was the prophet Joseph Smith, and he married your great-great-great grandmother.” There was no need for the girl to know her ancestor was one of more than 20 wives taken by the Mormon leader. “She was apparently very beautiful, just like you. But her first husband died from smallpox.”

  “Was she the princess?”

  “Yes, she was the 35th princess. Before she met Joseph Smith, she had a daughter, princess number 36. That’s who you descend from. And after she married Joseph Smith they had a son. And that’s who I descend from.” He dabbed his mouth and smiled. “So, you see, you and I are actually cousins.”

  She giggled. “So now I shall call you Uncle Cousin!”

  He yearned to tell her the entire truth, but it would serve no purpose other than to confuse her. “So, anyway, over time the Mandan people stayed in Illinois with the Mormons and became part of the community. After Joseph Smith died many Mormons went to Utah with Brigham Young. But some stayed in Illinois, including both of our families. Some of the Mandan married Mormons and other non-Mandans. Except the princesses. They always married full-blooded Mandan men, at least for their first husbands.”

  “So I shall also,” she exclaimed.

&
nbsp; He shook his head. “Actually, that would be impossible. Your mother was the last pure-blooded Mandan.”

  Astarte weighed this for a few seconds. “You mean I’m not a pure-blood?”

  “No.” He smiled. “Your father wasn’t Mandan.”

  “He wasn’t?” She paused. “Uncle, who was my father?”

  Again he longed to tell her the truth. The bullet, still lodged near his spine, caused his stooped posture and brought constant pain. But that was nothing compared to the psychological scar of being shot in the back by his own father. Daddy never understood that January was just trying to fulfill God’s will, to fulfill the prophecy of the Fortieth Princess. All Daddy saw was his middle-aged son, bare-assed, atop the young Mandan princess Daddy had raised as a daughter. “Astarte, your father was a Mormon, a descendant of the prophet Joseph Smith.” January looked away. “Just like me.”

  “But who was he?”

  He hated to lie to the girl. “I don’t know. All I know is that he was a descendant of Joseph Smith.”

  Astarte spent a few seconds mulling this over. “So can I be a true princess if I’m not a pure-blood?”

  He took another deep breath. “Actually, you are something much more important. Way back in the 12th century, over 800 years ago, it was prophesized that the Fortieth Princess would unite the peoples of the world under the true word of God. When it was time for your mother to have a baby, she chose a descendant of Joseph Smith to be its father. Your father. She thought it would help you fulfill the prophecy.” It was true. It had been Astarte’s mother’s idea to unite the bloodlines. Not that Daddy ever believed it; he died less than a year later, never having forgiven his son.

  “Is the prophecy about me written in the Book of Mormon also?”

  “No. It was prophesized by a great princess named Marie-Claire, who came to America from the country of France with some brave men called the Knights Templar.”

  “How did you find the prophecy?”

  How indeed? “It began almost 70 years ago, when my father was a young man doing missionary work in France just after World War II. He befriended a priest who gave him an ancient document that told of the voyage of Marie-Claire and the Templars to America. Eventually he gave me the document. Following clues left in this document has been my life’s work ever since.” That, and ensuring the prophecy would be fulfilled. “Soon it will be time for you to bring the prophecy to life.”

  She nibbled again on her bagel, weighing his words, her head down. When she looked up her eyes were wet with tears. “How will I know how to unite all the people?”

  He took her hand and kissed it, holding it to his craggy cheek as he spoke, the gesture allowing him to hide his own tear-filled eyes from the girl. With all his heart he wished he could live to help her. But it was not to be. “There’s nothing to fear, Astarte. God will take your hand and show you the way, just as I am holding it now.”

  Amanda’s first inclination had been to return the phone to the kitchen as she and Astarte snuck back from the bunker the night before, it being unrealistic to expect that nobody would notice it missing. But she decided to keep it; it was her only connection to the outside world. She was more concerned they would discover the missing artifact. So when Astarte left to have breakfast with January, Amanda locked herself in the bathroom, turned the water on and phoned Cam. He answered on the first ring. “Are you all right?” he blurted.

  “I’m okay. Can’t talk for long. But I think the password for the security system is the word princess followed by the numerals four and zero.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Honestly, I’m fine.” Knowing he and Salazar were planning a rescue had dissipated some of her cold fear.

  He exhaled. “Princess-four-zero, got it. I’m meeting January in an hour at the compound. I love you, honey. Please be careful.”

  “I love you too, Cam. See you at four in the morning. And please don’t oversleep.”

  CHAPTER 7

  January lingered over breakfast even after Astarte departed to return to Amanda. The whole thing with the attorney Bigelow gnawed at him—it didn’t add up. It was one thing for Bigelow to slowly lose enthusiasm over time, but his turnabout had been so sudden, and the tone of his email so formal, that it seemed almost certain something had intervened to poison the well. And in the hierarchical world of the Mormon Church, that “something” was almost always a Church official in Salt Lake City. Perhaps January shouldn’t have threatened to blow up the Museum of Church History and Art in Salt Lake City if the church historians didn’t take a closer look at his evidence….

  After forcing himself to choke down a piece of toast to settle his stomach, he popped three OxyContins and pushed himself out of his chair. Thorne was expecting to see more artifacts and January did not want to disappoint him. Before breakfast he had spent a few hours in his bunker gathering a dozen of his best pieces, the ones that most persuasively supported his theory. Of course, this did not include any of the devil’s rocks—he kept those hidden and, in fact, had left clear instructions with Eliza that they were to be destroyed upon his death. He summoned a male security guard from the front gate to help him pack the pieces into a wheeled case and carry them up to the kitchen. He now removed a few choice stones from the case, arranged them on the table and covered them with a chamois cloth.

  Forty-five minutes later January watched through the window as the same guard searched Thorne and his car before opening the gate. Thorne, tight-jawed, scanned the compound as he marched toward January’s front door, no doubt searching for his fiancée. They would meet at the kitchen table, a casual setting that would stand in stark contrast to the secrets January would reveal around it.

  Thorne pushed open the front door. “I would like to see Amanda.”

  January remained seated, gesturing to his guest to take the seat Astarte had recently vacated. “Must we go through this every time? She’s safe. Now please sit down.” He pushed a magazine across the table. “Have you seen this?”

  Thorne remained standing. “No.” He glanced at the article.

  “More evidence of Mediterranean explorers coming to America in ancient times. It’s pretty compelling—strong DNA links between the Cherokee Indians and the Jews. Did you know the ancient Cherokee name for their divine spirit is ‘Yo-He-Wah, almost identical to the Jewish Yahweh? One would think this type of thing would get some play in the mainstream press. Especially after you kicked the door down and stormed the ‘Columbus Was First’ castle. But no. Nothing.”

  “You brought me here just to see this?”

  “No. I just thought you’d be interested. As I said before, I brought you here because I need your help.” January fought back a stab of heat in his gut, gritting his teeth until it passed. Even the drugs were losing their effectiveness. It would not be long now. He took a deep breath and wiped the saliva off his mouth. “Perhaps my approach was wrong. I truly felt that once you saw the cave and some artifacts your anger would fade and you would understand why I abducted Amanda. I meant no harm; it was done simply to get your undivided attention. Mr. Thorne, there is a story here that is bigger than both of us, a secret history that will force historians to rewrite our textbooks, force religions to reexamine their beliefs. Surely a few days of anxiety is nothing compared to being part of such a cataclysmic event.” He settled his watery eyes on Thorne. “Your Prince Henry discovery opened people’s eyes. This will knock them on their ass.”

  Thorne studied January for a few seconds. “Nothing justifies kidnapping Amanda. Not even close. But I’m here. I’m listening.” He sat.

  “Yes, you will hear me out, because despite your anger your curiosity is piqued.” He shifted in his chair, trying to relieve the pain as the cancer gnawed away at his cells like millions of tiny piranha. “As you probably know, the Book of Mormon is based on inscribed golden plates found by Joseph Smith on the Hill Cumorah in upstate New York in the early 1800s. It tells of God’s dealings with the ancient peoples of Ameri
ca from approximately 600 BC to 400 AD.”

  Thorne cut him off. “Look, I’m willing to be open-minded about Burrows Cave and your artifacts. But you’re never going to convince me that angels gave some golden plates to Joseph Smith and that the Book of Mormon is a holy text.”

  January nodded. In some ways he welcomed Thorne’s skepticism. If he could convince someone like Thorne he could convince almost anyone. “There was a time, in my youth, when I shared that opinion. But that was before I started looking at the evidence.”

  “You mean the artifacts.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just because your artifacts show that ancient explorers came to America doesn’t mean those explorers were Mormons, or Nephites, or whatever you call them.”

  “On the contrary. The artifacts tell the exact story of the Book of Mormon. You are a lawyer. Once you see the evidence you will agree.”

  “Like I said, I’m listening.”

  January handed him a pen and a legal pad. “I think you’ll want to take notes.” He smiled. “In case you want to cross-examine me later.” He began. “The Book of Mormon tells us the Nephites came to North America from Jerusalem in 589 BC.”

  Thorne scribbled “Nephites” and the date 589 BC on the pad.

  January continued. “Most Mormon authorities believe these Nephite seafarers arrived in Central America. But I believe the ancient lands described in the Book of Mormon are actually in the southern Great Lakes region. So it makes sense we should find artifacts in the Great Lakes area that reflect the culture and history of people who came from the Middle East.” He recited the line he had written and spoken dozens of times over the past few years. “Specifically, the artifacts should be culturally and historically consistent with Jewish life in the 6th century BC and also that of the Phoenicians, who logic would tell us were the ship owners and sailors and navigators who likely accompanied the Nephites. Agreed?”