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

by David S. Brody

  “Why not just hide them at the base of the trail?” Amanda asked.

  Cam was tempted. January had died for them—he’d rather not meet a similar fate. “The problem is if we have to make a run for it, we’re not going to be able to circle back and get them. I think I’d rather deal with the extra weight.”

  They met Salazar at the base of a public trail and pulled their packs from the SUV, Salazar carrying Amanda’s pack for her. Salazar suggested Cam drive the SUV into the underbrush and cover it with branches and leaves. “Make it look like we don’t want them to find it.”

  After doing so Cam climbed into the front seat of the Toyota. “Follow the road higher up into the mountains,” Cam said. He consulted January’s topo map. “From what I can see, there used to be a trail heading up along that ridge line.” He pointed out the window. “It’s on private property now, but hopefully some of the trail still exists.”

  “That’s a steep climb,” Salazar said. “Even with a trail it’s going to be tough after all the rain. Why not come up the backside of the mountain? It’d be easy to follow one of the ski trails to the summit.”

  “I thought about that, but all the orientations and directions in January’s notes are based on coming up this way. I don’t want to miss the landmarks.”

  “Then why not send Amanda and the girl up the backside with me? We can meet you at the top.”

  “Thanks, we’ll stay together,” Amanda answered quickly.

  Salazar stared hard at Amanda for a few seconds before shrugging and handing Cam a walkie-talkie. “Not sure you’ll have cell reception up there. Check in every half-hour.”

  Cam nodded. “Over that ridge there’s a dip into a saddle between this and the next ridge line. Somewhere up in the saddle is a cave marked by a carving on a rock. According to January that’s where the artifacts are.” He didn’t want to go into too much detail about the exact location.

  “You’re talking 800 years ago. Would the carving still be there?” Salazar asked.

  Amanda said, “If they carved it into a hard rock it would be. We have plenty of artifacts older than that in Great Britain.” She bit her lip as she peered up the mountain. “But I’m more concerned with finding the cave in the first place. That ridge line goes on for hundreds of yards; that’s a massive area we’ll need to search.”

  Astarte patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Miss Amanda. I can find the artifacts. It was my ancestors who hid them.”

  Twenty minutes later, just as the sky was beginning to glow in the east, Amanda, Cam and Astarte piled out of Salazar’s car, slipped on their packs and hats and gloves and began trudging through the woods along an old logging road. It felt surreal to Amanda—how did a simple girl from the London suburbs end up chasing Templar secrets while being pursued by United States military operatives? Her first few years in the States had been deathly boring. Now here she was the fulcrum of some national security crisis, hunted by assassins for the second time in just over a year.

  As if reading her mood, the miner’s lamp strapped to Cam’s forehead illuminated an orange ‘No Trespassing’ sign, complete with skull and crossbones, nailed to a tree. Cam smiled. “The Templars are the ones who first used the skull and crossbones. Maybe that’s a signal we’re on the right path.”

  “The Templars used it as a symbol for death,” Amanda said. “Hardly an auspicious sign.”

  Wet, fallen leaves covered the ground; once off the main road the trail ascended sharply up the mountain face. Amanda glanced up the steep ridge: What were they doing? The Isis piece was fake—didn’t that make this whole quest quixotic? She sighed. Not necessarily. As Cam pointed out, just because January linked the Codex to the Burrows Cave artifacts didn’t mean the link was an actual one. The Isis stone could be fake and the Codex still authentic.…

  The trail split, the wider path leading off to the left while a scar-like serration on the mountain face climbed upward. Cam studied January’s map. “Unfortunately, we take the road less traveled.”

  “Hopefully that will make all the difference,” Amanda exhaled.

  They ascended carefully, their vision limited by the range and direction of Cam’s lamp. Amanda and Cam each carried hiking sticks; Cam led the way, using his stick as a third leg, planting it deep into the path and transferring part of his body weight over it with every step. With his free hand he grabbed hold of tree branches to pull himself forward; Amanda did the same, but stayed a few yards behind him so the branches didn’t slap back in her face. Astarte scampered along rabbit-like, using her gloved hands as another pair of feet and following the indentations in the trail made by Cam and Amanda ahead of her. She hummed the “It’s off to work we go” song from Snow White as they climbed. Cam kept his head bowed, careful that the light not serve as a beacon for their pursuers. So far there had been no sign of Buckner. The sun at their backs occasionally filtered through the forest, but for the most part they proceeded in the near-dark.

  Amanda watched Cam. He did a lot of mountain-biking and jogged a few miles almost every day, but not with a 65-pound load on his back. After about fifteen minutes he was breathing hard, sweat moistening his forehead. Amanda’s pack was lighter, and she worked out regularly herself, but he refused her offer to share his load. Especially with her injured ribs. There was a bit of macho in him, which she actually found endearing as it did not cross over into chauvinism. In fact, she sensed he secretly liked it that she regularly beat him on the tennis court.

  Not that this climb was any kind of a game. She arched her neck; the entire mountain face loomed above her, mocking them. The trail, or what was left of it, angled upward, bypassing the sheer rock faces but otherwise making no accommodation to the mountain’s incline. Cam shifted his pack, reaching back to push at some protruding artifact that dug into his shoulder blade.

  She came up next to him, breathing hard herself, which only made the pain in her chest more acute. “My kingdom for a chairlift.”

  He sipped at some water. “No wonder all the trails up here are called Devil’s Path, and Devil’s Tombstone, and Devil’s Acre.”

  “They are?” Astarte asked, her eyes widening.

  “Don’t fret,” Amanda said. “It’s just a name.”

  Astarte chewed her lip. “You said these mountains are called the Catskills. Is that because the devil kills all the cats?”

  “No,” Cam said. “It’s an old Dutch name, like where the windmills are. ‘Kill’ is the Dutch word for creek. So it just means cats lived near the streams.”

  “I haven’t seen any cats. Have you?” the girl asked Cam.

  “No. But did you know the story Rip Van Winkle was set in these mountains?”

  The girl would not be distracted. “Is there another name, different than Catskills?”

  Cam gave Astarte a funny look. “I think the Native Americans called this area Onteora. Why?”

  Astarte swallowed. “I knew it. This is where the evil spirits live.” She explained that Onteora was a spirit who terrorized the ancient peoples of the area. The great god Manitou captured Onteora and created these mountain ridges to imprison him. “He lives here still,” the girl concluded. Apparently January made sure she was well-versed in her Native American culture. Even the darker parts.

  Amanda crouched in front of the girl. “Astarte, those are just legends. There’s no such thing as evil spirits.”

  She raised her chin. “You’re wrong. Have you seen any animals this morning?”

  Amanda and Cam exchanged glances. Other than a few birds high in the trees, and some insects, she hadn’t seen anything. No squirrels, no chipmunks, no rabbits, no deer. Peculiar.

  “Well,” Amanda said, “that may be because it’s getting close to winter.”

  “No. There are no animals here because Onteora eats them. That’s why all the cats get killed here.” She glanced back down the trail, her voice now a whisper. “My people know they are not supposed to come up here. I think we should go back down.”

  Amand
a peered again into the woods. Why were there no animals up here?

  “Go back down?” Amanda forced a light laugh. “This story you just told us about Onteora is actually very good news. I think Manitou gave Onteora a job when he imprisoned him here, and that job was to guard the artifacts in the caves. Manitou knew someday the Fortieth Princess would come looking for the artifacts, and he wanted to make sure people stayed away from here until she did. Until you did.”

  Astarte looked at her uncertainly.

  “Tell me, Astarte, is it your destiny to save your people?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, then,” Amanda said, clapping her hands together, “this gives us a huge advantage over the men chasing us. It’s like King Arthur and Excalibur—only the Fortieth Princess is destined to find these artifacts. Others who try will fail, just as no other knight could extract Excalibur. And Onteora is here to make sure of that, just as the wizard Merlin helped Arthur. Onteora is a spirit, but his evil is directed at those who would defy Manitou, would defy the destiny of the Fortieth Princess.” She stood up from her crouch. “I, for one, welcome Onteora’s help. It’s about time we had a bit of good luck.”

  But as Astarte mulled over Amanda’s placating words, Amanda edged closer to Cam. “Cam, why are there no animals up here? The girl’s spot on. It’s bloody unnatural.”

  They continued climbing, the post-dawn sun illuminating the trail but not drying it. Cam and his pack outweighed Amanda by well over a hundred pounds; every few yards the moist earth gave way and he either fell to one knee or slid down the trail into Amanda, who learned quickly to brace herself so they both didn’t snowball down onto Astarte. The sharp edges of the stones jabbed into Cam’s back every time he slipped or lunged.

  Astarte kept up, but her chipper mood had turned reflective as she, like Cam and Amanda, listened in vain for the sound of wildlife in the woods. At least the thought of evil spirits took Cam’s mind off the strain of the climb.

  After an hour of climbing he turned to Amanda. “How about a break?” Sweat streamed from his armpits and back and pooled along his waistband.

  “Fine with me.”

  He sat on a rock and removed his ski hat and lamp; he had already unzipped his jacket. His shirt was drenched, and he guessed his pulse was in the 150 range. Not dangerous, but quite a workout. “We’re about halfway. Looks like the toughest part of the climb is just ahead.”

  As Amanda removed water bottles and energy bars from her pack, Cam checked in via walkie-talkie with Salazar, who was driving up and down the mountain access road watching for Buckner.

  “No sign of them yet,” Salazar said. “My guess is they’re waiting for it to get light enough to get some aerial surveillance.”

  “Like, military satellites? Looking for us?” Cam glanced skyward involuntarily. He remembered the new clips showing U.S. drones assassinating terrorists in the hills of Afghanistan. Was that same technology being marshaled against them now?

  “Satellites, or maybe a surveillance aircraft. This is the feds. And they want to stop you guys pretty bad.”

  Cam guided Amanda and Astarte under an overhang of vegetation. He hadn’t heard any airplanes this morning, but a satellite or high-flying military plane would be out of his hearing range anyway. As they snacked he angled his chin toward a rivulet flowing past them. “According to the map, the trail runs parallel to that stream. If for some reason we get separated, just follow the water back to the road.”

  Amanda looked hard at him and slipped her arm over Astarte’s shoulders. “We’re not getting separated.”

  They hadn’t really discussed an escape plan, or what do to if confronted by Buckner and his men. If Salazar was right about the satellite surveillance they had less than a two-hour head start on the agents, with the trained operatives likely able to close the gap quickly. And that was assuming they fell for the wrong-trail ruse. Cam scanned the slope below them, as he had done dozens of times already. He hoped Amanda was right, that they wouldn’t be separated, but the sobering reality was that if Buckner’s men found them Cam would have no choice but delay them and hope Amanda and Astarte could escape. He had no desire to be a hero or a martyr; in fact, he desperately wanted to live long enough to have children with Amanda and grow old together and hopefully spend the next 50 years rewriting American history. But it made no sense for all of them to die on this mountain. His death would force the police to believe Amanda’s story and protect her from Buckner if she and Astarte were somehow able to get back to town. Suddenly all the Thief on the Cross stuff seemed pretty unimportant.…

  There wasn’t much of a trail anymore so they navigated up a series of steep rock outcroppings on all fours, using weeds and bushes and crevices in the slick, wet rock as handholds. Astarte, again, had little trouble scurrying up the slope. But Cam and Amanda struggled, their higher centers of gravity and the weight of their packs hindering them.

  “Cam, this is bloody foolish. Someone’s likely to get hurt.”

  He found a foothold and turned his head. “I don’t know that we have much choice. There’s no other way up to this ridge line.”

  She snorted but didn’t argue. Cam resumed, his eyes focused on the rock just ahead of him, making sure his upper foot was firmly secured before shifting weight off his lower foot. As he neared the top of a particularly slick outcrop, he gripped a small birch tree rooted in a crevice where the rock had split. As he tugged he swung his back foot forward. Snap. The birch sheared in his hand. Instantly he knew he was in trouble. He was falling backward with nothing to break his fall except air and whatever rocks he might finally crash against.

  Desperate, he waved his hands, trying to propel his body weight forward, using his arms to counterbalance his weight the way a tightrope walker used a pole. But it was too late. He could not defy gravity, could not overcome the weight of the pack and the slope of the mountain. A voice in his head told him to relax his body, reminded him of stories of drunken college kids surviving falls from balconies because their intoxication kept their muscles flaccid….

  “Cam!” Amanda screamed. She lunged for him, hooked a couple of fingers around a strap on his pack and yanked. It was just enough to partially rotate his body. Now instead of his back facing down the mountain, he was angled across the fall line. Milliseconds before his feet lost contact with the outcrop, he thrust himself sideways, directing his fall away from the steepest slope of the outcrop. He soared, his body now in a prone position, his hands and feet splayed outward like a pouncing cougar. The outcrop rushed up to meet him. He braced and landed chin first, the weight of the backpack driving his chest into the stone. Bouncing and skidding, he slid down the slope as he clawed at the wet rock, willing to let the fall tear his fingers from his hands if necessary. Finally he came to a stop 30 feet down the slope.

  He was alive. He knew it because his body was screaming out in anguish.

  “No!” Cam teetered backward on the rock ledge, just an arm’s length from Amanda’s grasp, her fingers unable to hold their grip on the strap of his pack. And then he fell. No, no, no, no. She dropped to her knees, paralyzed, and watched him bounce down the slope. The sight of his body sprawled on the rocks below, twitching, sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. “Cam! Are you all right? Cam?”

  She threw off her pack and crab-crawled down the outcrop. “Astarte, stay here,” she yelled over her shoulder. She knew she needed to focus on her descent but she couldn’t take her eyes off of Cam’s crumpled body. And tears clouded her vision anyway. She skidded the final few feet to his side. “Cam, can you hear me?” He stirred, shifting his head a bit. She exhaled. He was alive. “Don’t move.”

  She touched him lightly on the shoulder. Blood pooled under a nasty gash on his chin. “Astarte,” she called, “get the first aid kit from my pack and toss it down here.” She removed her glove, folded it in half and pressed it against his chin. “Can you tell me what hurts?” How would she get him down if he had serious injuries?

  He moaned
and blinked. “Chest. Knee. Chin. Everything.”

  “Can you move your fingers and toes?”

  He blinked again and nodded.

  “Okay.” She slid his pack off. “We need you to spin around, get your head uphill to stop the bleeding. And also get you onto your back.” He grunted and eased himself around.

  “Good. That better?”

  He spit some blood; hopefully he had bit his lip or tongue. How in the world would she know if he had internal injuries? He could bleed to death and she would never see it.

  “Can you breathe okay?”

  “I think I just got the wind knocked out of me.” He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “I feel like I fell off a mountain.”

  “Funny that.” She smiled and kissed him gently on the cheek. Astarte tossed her the kit, and she taped a bandage to his chin.

  “Now look at me.” She had some first aid training and experience with head injuries from her days as a gymnast. Cam’s pupils were dilated and he shaded his eyes as he turned toward the filtered sun rays. “Do you remember what we were talking about before you fell?”

  He paused. “Um, no.”

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  He stared off in the distance. “It’s Thanksgiving, right?”

  “Good. Do you remember what Astarte was saying about the wild animals on this mountain?”

  “She’s afraid of bears?” He furrowed his brow. “No, wait, that was you last night. I don’t remember.”

  “What did you have for breakfast?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Do you feel like throwing up?”

  “A little. I’m nauseous.” He swallowed. “And light-headed.”

  “It sounds like you have a mild concussion. You have some short-term memory loss. I don’t think you lost consciousness, at least not for long, so hopefully it’s not too serious.” Normally he would be on his way to a hospital. Instead he was going to have to finish this climb.