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

by David S. Brody

  The Novocain numbed Cam’s face but at least the hockey doctors had closed his gash and capped his tooth. The knee would have to wait.

  “I’ll drop you back at your hotel,” Father Jean said. The hotel was booked; they would get cots and share Georgia’s room.

  The group piled back into the Audi. “I am hoping you will join me at the Basilica for breakfast,” the priest said. “The Vatican is sending an envoy by private jet. I have briefed them but not provided details. I’m certain he will be interested in your find.”

  Cam worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to get feeling back. “Of course we will listen to what the Vatican has to say. But this is not going to be like the Dead Sea Scrolls, with the Vatican trying to control and filter the information.”

  “I understand,” the priest said. “You have custody of the scroll. And the bones are the property of the Basilica, not Rome. But I think you agree the Vatican deserves a seat at the table.”

  “As does the U.S. government,” Georgia said. “And probably the Canadians as well.” She had updated Hayek. Langley had already shifted to damage control, claiming Buckner was acting on his own. “Obviously we do not want to cause unrest or turmoil in the Middle East.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “The U.S. government can pound sand as far as I’m concerned.”

  Cam smiled. “I’m with Amanda on that. But I think we’d be okay if Georgia joined us for breakfast.”

  Amanda said, “And let’s not forget that Astarte needs to be part of any decisions we make.” The girl leaned against Amanda’s shoulder, barely awake. “She found the scroll, and she is the Fortieth Princess. None of us would be here were it not for her.”

  Father Jean stopped in front of the hotel. “Very well then,” said the priest as he stepped from the vehicle. “I will see you all at eight o’clock at the Basilica.” He smiled at the girl. “Astarte, I would appreciate it if you would sit next to me. The men from the Vatican often wear funny-looking clothes; you will have to keep me from laughing.”

  Amanda felt exhausted. And she wanted a shower. And a glass of wine. And maybe a big bowl of popcorn. And a massage. Yes, definitely a massage. But at least cold fear no longer numbed her core.

  They requested the cots and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Amanda immediately opened the closet to check on the artifacts. She gasped. The closet was empty. “That’s where we left them, right?” she said. The blanket they had covered them with lay crumpled on the floor. Amanda lifted it, knowing nothing lay beneath. They stared into the empty closet. “Damn it,” she breathed.

  “It had to be Eliza,” Cam finally said. “Buckner and his men are in the back of some van—Father Jean just spoke to the sergeant twenty minutes ago. And nobody else knew about them.”

  “What about Georgia’s boss?” Amanda asked. She plopped onto one of the beds; she was tired and frustrated and angry and … well, just ready to be done with all of this. Astarte sat next to her and patted her knee while Cam and Georgia plopped into chairs. The room smelled stale. Or maybe it was them.

  “Hayek is trying to wash his hands of this,” Georgia said. “Besides, he doesn’t care about the Burrows Cave pieces or even the urn with the ashes. He cares about the Clairvaux Codex and the scroll, which we still have. And of course the bones themselves, assuming they are in the crypt.”

  “Again,” Cam said, “we’re back to Eliza. She wants to keep the Isis piece quiet—obviously the writing on the back reveals it as a fake. But why should she care so much?”

  “I would think that is fairly obvious.” Eliza appeared in the foyer of the room, gun drawn, her hair pulled tightly into a bun above the high collar of a blue, long-sleeved house dress. Amanda lurched off the bed. Eliza waved the gun at her, her small teeth visible beneath her sneer. “They are called the devil’s stones for a reason.”

  Eliza considered her options. She had hoped to make a quick escape with the artifacts before they returned. But this might work out for the better. “I will take Astarte, of course. And Thorne, you will come along also; you will carry the artifacts. They are in the bathtub. I will need the scroll as well.”

  “But why, Aunt Eliza?” Astarte asked. “I would like to stay with Miss Amanda. And Mr. Cameron. I think we could all be friends once you get to know them.”

  “Nonsense. They have become a liability to us. And to you. You will never take your role as the Fortieth Princess if you remain with these fools.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Eliza sighed. “I suppose you have the right to know.” And it would be better if the girl came voluntarily; she had already shown how resourceful she could be. “Everyone sit on the bed. Hands behind your head.” She motioned with her .38 Smith and Wesson, equipped with silencer.

  She focused her words on Astarte, but watched the others for any sudden movement. “This all begins back in the 1870s, just after the Civil War. Many of the Mormons had gone to Utah with Brigham Young. But my family stayed in Illinois. My great-great-grandmother Sarah was a teenager at the time.” The story had been told dozens of time, mother to daughter, over the decades. “She was walking in the woods near the family farm with her younger sister. They stumbled upon an underground cave filled with carved stones. They brought a few of the stones home to show their mother, who showed them to her sister, Sarah’s aunt. For the next few months the four of them returned to the cave every chance they got, studying the artifacts. There were many rooms in the cave complex, and thousands of artifacts in them.”

  Usually the story was told to girls on their tenth birthday. But this was not a usual circumstance, and Astarte not a usual girl. Eliza continued. “Sarah was a brilliant girl, and very spiritual. One night the prophet Joseph Smith came to her in a dream and gave her instructions which he said were crucial to the survival of the Mormon Church. He ordered Sarah and her mother to travel to Salt Lake City to tell Brigham Young about the cave and her dream, which they did.”

  “What was the dream about?” Astarte asked. She had always loved these kinds of stories, and her curiosity outweighed her apprehension at seeing her aunt wave a gun at her new friends.

  “I’ll get to that.” Eliza cleared her throat. “The carvings on the stones supported many of the stories in the Book of Mormon. But a few of the carved stones contradicted the Book, and other parts of the Book described events which the stones didn’t mention.”

  The Spencer woman interrupted. “Imagine that? And here all along I thought your Book of Mormon was the word of God.”

  Eliza ignored her. “Brigham Young had heard legends of the cave from some of the Mandan elders—their oral history told of a cave holding artifacts and gold of an ancient people. But so many of the Mandan had died that the cave’s location had been lost. So he was very excited about Sarah’s discovery, and about her dream.” She spoke to Astarte. “So Sarah did all the things Joseph Smith told her to do in her dream. She removed the artifacts that did not agree with the stories in the Book of Mormon. And she was artistic enough and knowledgeable enough about history and the Bible to create other artifacts that filled in the gaps. She also created pieces that supported the claims of the Mandan Fortieth Princess—this had become part of Brigham Young’s vision for the Mormon Church. Not that Mormon leaders today wanted anything to do with it. She even put bars of gold that Brigham Young gave her in the cave to make it seem even more authentic—who would bury gold as a hoax? Then, as Joseph Smith instructed, she sealed the cave back up.”

  “Why did she close the cave?” Astarte asked.

  “Because the artifacts needed time to age and weather. Joseph Smith told Sarah that her descendants needed to wait a hundred years before the cave could be discovered. And the person who found it should not be a Mormon. So beginning in the 1970s the women of our family—I was a teenager at the time—exposed the cave opening.” By that time nobody in Salt Lake City had any memory of the matriarchs’ plan—and if they did they never would have supported it. The Mormon lead
ers had turned conservative and timid, a bunch of momma’s boys. Heck, Jefferson couldn’t even convince them to take his research seriously.

  Eliza continued. “We tried to lure treasure-hunters to the area with rumors of valuables hidden in the woods. It took a few years but eventually Russell Burrows found the cave in 1982.” She paused. “It might have been better if the cave had been discovered by someone else. But the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “The Lord has nothing to do with this,” the Spencer woman said.

  Eliza had ignored the first snide comment. But it was time to put the uppity Brit in her place. “Brave words.” She waved her gun under the tart’s nose. “But God seems to have brought us to this point—me with a gun and you cowering on a bed.” She paused. “Things have not proceeded exactly as we planned. But Jesus’ bones will prove Astarte’s royal lineage through DNA testing—we hadn’t counted on that piece of good fate. And even if the Vatican buries the bones, the ancient scroll you found proves the validity of the Clairvaux Codex, which proves the story of Burrows Cave and the artifacts. All we need to do now is destroy the devil’s rocks. Then the evidence proving both the Book of Mormon and Astarte’s royal lineage will be one hundred percent convincing.”

  Eliza had been watching for Thorne’s reaction as she spoke. He had seen the actual cave, studied the artifacts. He knew how compelling they were. As a historian, he would argue for the artifacts’ authenticity even if he didn’t like the result. She turned to him. “Jefferson was smart to find you. You have finished his quest.” After decades of work and planning things were finally coming together.

  Finally Thorne responded, his voice little more than a whisper. “So the Burrows Cave pieces are authentic….”

  “Yes, other than a few dozen pieces carved by my family. Like the Isis Stone. We needed that one to demonstrate the connection between Astarte’s bloodline and the Egyptian royal line of Cleopatra. Thankfully Jefferson pulled the Isis piece from the collection before anyone discovered its flaw. But the other pieces—thousands of them—are authentic.”

  Thorne shook his head. “That is amazing. In some ways more amazing than the bones of Jesus. To think ancient explorers were in America’s heartland more than two thousand years ago….”

  “Not just any ancient explorers,” Eliza said. “We know exactly who they were. And why they were here. God describes it all for us right in the Book of Mormon.”

  The Spencer woman rolled her eyes, her hands still atop her head. “You just admitted you cooked the books. Or cooked the book, as it were. The artifacts tell an entirely different story.”

  Eliza had had enough. She fired a quick shot, aiming for the triangle between the crook of the sassy Brit’s elbow and her ear. The bullet nicked her sleeve and thudded into the wall above the headboard—well away from Astarte, of course. The Spencer woman screeched. “I’m getting sick of your mouth,” Eliza hissed.

  Astarte began to cry. “Come with me, Astarte,” Eliza said. “This instant. You too, Thorne.” She glared at the Brit cowering on the bed. “I won’t miss next time.”

  Cam scrambled to obey Eliza’s order to retrieve the pack she had stashed in the bathtub. Anything to get the crazy woman and her loaded gun away from Amanda. He exhaled as the hotel room door latched shut behind them, his only farewell a fleeting glance at his fiancée, wide-eyed in fear on the bed.

  “Take the stairs,” Eliza ordered. He limped ahead, with Astarte walking alongside her aunt stoically. She had hugged Amanda before following her aunt, but the echo of the gunshot in the room had ended any debate about whether Astarte would accompany her aunt.

  Cam exaggerated his limp, the pack of artifacts draped over one shoulder, hoping to slow their pace to buy some time. He considered trying to overpower Eliza, but she was a large-boned woman who wasn’t afraid to use that gun. And she had, smartly, left herself unburdened by the heavy pack. In her shoes, Cam would just use himself as a pack mule to reach her car and dump him at the hotel curb. If that was the case, he’d better do something quickly or the artifacts—and Astarte—might be lost forever.

  Eliza would not harm Astarte, at least not in the physical sense. But she would destroy the artifacts. Part of him remained numb at the realization that the Burrows Cave carvings were authentic. Every history book in America would need to be rewritten.

  And if Eliza had her way, every Bible would need to be rewritten as well.

  They approached the stairwell. Eliza had a decision to make. She had made a deal with the love-struck mercenary, Salazar—he had tracked Thorne and the Spencer and supplied her with a master pass-card that would unlock the hotel room door. Was she ready to betray him? No, it was too soon. She might still need his help. Already outnumbered, she didn’t need another enemy.

  “Astarte, wait here,” she said as Thorne, ahead of them, reached for the stairwell door. She pushed the girl into a gap between the ice machine and the wall, the whir of the machine masking the noises of the hotel. The recent gunshot had numbed the usually-irrepressible girl into obedience. As Thorne pushed open the stairway door a pair of hands reached out and ensnared him in a chokehold. Eliza grabbed for the strap of Thorne’s backpack and lifted the pack off of him as he writhed to the floor. She allowed the door to close behind her as she stepped back into the hallway, the sound of the men scuffling muffled behind the thick door.

  As she had promised Salazar, the girl hadn’t seen—or heard—a thing. “Come with me, Astarte. We will take the elevator after all.”

  Salazar’s right arm encircled Thorne’s neck, pressuring and constricting his enemy’s windpipe. But somehow Thorne had managed to slide his arm inside the choke hold, partially blocking it. This was taking longer than Salazar had planned. Didn’t Thorne realize who the true alpha male was?

  Salazar’s plan required him to make quick work of Thorne on the stairwell landing before rushing to the street below to rescue Astarte from the crazy Mormon woman. He would blame Thorne’s death on the Mormon woman’s “accomplice”—he would need to kill her as well to keep the story from unraveling—and return the young girl to an appreciative Amanda. The plan was far from perfect but in the field you improvised as best you could. And it was worth the risk. With Thorne out of the way, he and Amanda would finally be able to build a life together.

  But first he needed to subdue Thorne, who was much stronger than he looked. And who apparently felt he had a lot to live for.

  Instead of surprise or even fear Cam’s first reaction at being grabbed around the neck was anger. Hadn’t he gone through enough today? But when he realized his assailant was Salazar his anger turned to rage. “What the fuck are you doing?” he gasped.

  The mercenary did not respond verbally. But the extra pressure on Cam’s windpipe was answer enough. Rage turned to panic. Cam had already lost strength from the lack of oxygen; a few more seconds would be fatal.

  Cam writhed, aiming his free elbow at the mercenary’s face while simultaneously trying to spin away. But Salazar held—he was stronger than Cam, and he had the advantage of the dominant position due to his surprise attack. But Cam wasn’t going to die without a fight.

  The red railing atop the landing gave Cam an idea. Under the guise of trying to spin away Cam worked himself closer to the rail. He threw another wild elbow, forcing Salazar to duck. In the next instant Cam lifted both feet, planted them against the railing and pushed backward. Salazar, slightly off-balance from ducking the elbow, had no leverage to defend the maneuver and the two men careened back into the cement wall, Salazar absorbing the force of Cam’s body against his. The mercenary grunted, his grip loosening, and Cam threw another elbow. This one connected to Salazar’s jaw, catapulting his head back a second time against the cement wall. He staggered as Cam broke free.

  Eyes wild, Salazar shook his head clear and snorted. Bellowing with fury he charged at Cam like a rhino meeting the challenge of a young bull. Cam rose up to engage him, inviting the charge, two bucks replaying the timeless primeval str
uggle over male domination. Who would fertilize the herd, whose genes would live on?

  But Cam was not a beast. At the last instant before shoulders and chests collided he ducked and spun from Salazar’s charge like a matador avoiding a bull. As Salazar’s momentum carried him past, Cam shoved him in the back, propelling him even more violently toward the railing. Up and over the barrier the mercenary went, somersaulting, his fingers clawing at the rail. Cam spun to watch his adversary fall, his body rag-dolling off the steel railings lining the central stair well. Three stories later Salazar’s body finally thudded off the cement landing on the ground floor.

  Cam had no interest in descending to see if his motionless adversary had survived the fall.

  Amanda took a second to fight back the tears, wrapping her arms around herself to stop from shaking and to allow the echo of the gunshot to fade. Eyes closed, she took three deep breaths. She could actually smell the gunpowder residue. But enough of that. Cam and Astarte were in danger. She jumped off the bed.

  Her first inclination was to run after them. But Georgia put a hand on her arm. “Hold on, cowgirl. If you step into that hallway and she sees you, she’ll shoot you.”

  Amanda nodded. “You’re right.”

  “I’ll call Father Jean and ask for help. Look out the window and see if you can spot them.”

  Less than a minute passed before Amanda saw Eliza pulling Astarte into a grey SUV. But where was Cam? Amanda gave the plate number to Georgia and sprinted from the room. She plowed through the stairwell door, shocked to see Cam standing there. His face was red and scratch marks ran up and down his neck. Panting, he smiled weakly. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Fine.” He took her hand and spun her gently. “But not this stairwell. Salazar’s down there.”