The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  Only a couple hundred yards from their hotel, his lungs beginning to burn and his legs feeling heavy, Cam fought to maintain his pace as he ascended a final incline. He had ventured further than he thought—his smart watch said just over five miles—and he was beginning to fear that his curiosity had outpaced his stamina.

  A steel-blue minivan with flowers painted on its side rumbled toward him, Cam still not accustomed to vehicles using the left side of the road. Both the driver and his companion in the passenger seat were smoking, but as they approached they flicked their butts out the window, as if in response to spotting him. Cam tensed as the van slowed. Both men eyed him.

  Cam glanced around. No other vehicles, no other pedestrians. His hotel beckoned like an oasis in the distance. The sidewalk narrowed ahead, funneling due to some building construction. What the hell do they want with me? He thought about reversing course, but did not want to turn his back on his possible assailants. Instead he upped his pace.

  The driver responded immediately, swerving toward Cam, the vehicle’s front wheels jumping the curb, the van ominously blocking Cam’s path. The incongruity of the cheery floral decorations and the looming danger presented by the van was not lost on Cam. The passenger leapt out even before the van stopped, a burly man in a hooded sweatshirt carrying a black club. He silently closed on Cam before Cam could retreat, swinging the club more like a gladiator than a florist. Cam raised his left arm to block it, the blow crashing against his forearm and sending bullets of pain up his arm. What the hell was going on? Acting instinctively, Cam dropped to the ground in a crab position and whipped out his right foot, catching the thug behind the ankle and upending him. Before the driver could join the fray, Cam jumped to his feet, pivoted, and ducked under some scaffolding into the ground floor of the nearby building under construction.

  His eyes darted as he tried to quiet his breathing. Drop cloths covered the floor, and sawhorses and ladders filled the space, which looked to be the lobby of an office building. The burly assailant, now joined by the driver, stumbled in after him. Cam, his left arm numb, did not wait for round two. He ran toward the back of the darkened building, grabbing a two-by-four propped against a wall. He rubbed a hand across his face. Perhaps entering a dark, secluded space was not the best decision.

  Squinting, he moved parallel to the street. Hopefully there would be another egress back to the sidewalk up ahead. But as his eyes adjusted he realized he was leaving footprints in the sawdust. Faint, but visible. A flashlight snapped on, its beam crisscrossing the construction area. His assailants must have stumbled upon the light. Or perhaps they had come well-equipped. Either way, maybe Cam could use his footprints and their newfound light against them.

  Running now, he found what he was looking for. A stairway along the back wall of the lobby, heading down. He glanced back. His pursuers were moving methodically, the beam along the ground, apparently following his tracks. They must have figured, as Cam had now done, that there was likely only one entrance into an office lobby. They had him trapped. Bypassing the stairwell, he ran ahead another ten steps and stopped in front of a closed door. Rather than pushing through it, he lowered a ladder that had been leaning against the back wall to the ground and walked its length back toward the stairs. At the end of the ladder he grabbed a paint can, placed it a few feet beyond the ladder, and jumped. Using a combination of saw horses and construction debris, he hopscotched along, managing to retrace his steps back to the stairwell—without leaving any footprints.

  The light beam approached. As silently as he could, Cam rolled over the stairwell half-wall, caught himself atop the bannister, and slid down feet first into the darkness below.

  He waited a few seconds, listening. “Here,” a voice said, the Irish brogue unmistakable. “More footprints.” And less audibly. “They stop at this door.”

  “Open it.”

  “It’s locked.”

  “Well, knock the fucking thing down then. Obviously that’s where the bloke went.” A pause. “We need answers about that sword.”

  Sword? Did I hear that correctly?

  A crash echoed a few seconds later, followed by the sound of footsteps. Cam didn’t wait for them to discover they’d been duped. He ran up the stairs, back through the lobby, and out onto the sidewalk. The van sat, two wheels on the street and two on the sidewalk, still running.

  Cam reached in and took the keys, tossing them down a storm grate. “Assholes,” he cursed as he sprinted the final block to his hotel, his left arm limp by his side, wondering how they knew about the sword and why it was so important to them.

  After showering and taking a couple of Advil, Cam pulled Amanda aside while Astarte got dressed in the bathroom. Downplaying the incident, he described the encounter. “So I slipped into a building under construction and lost them. Lucky for me there was a second exit.” He showed her the welt on his forearm. “But I banged my arm on some scaffolding.” He couldn’t not tell Amanda, yet he did not want to unnecessarily alarm her.

  Her green eyes flashed in anger. “What did they bloody want?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t stick around long enough for them to ask. But I think I heard them mention wanting to find answers about the sword.”

  “Brian’s swagger sword?”

  “I assume so. What else could it be? Maybe someone was following him and saw him get in my car in Newport. Maybe they think I have it.”

  “And they followed you to Ireland?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Could be they followed him, and saw me with him at the soccer match yesterday.”

  She nodded. “Perhaps.”

  He shrugged. “Look, I could have heard wrong. The guys had thick accents. Maybe it was just a random mugging attempt. Maybe it had nothing to do with the sword.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And maybe tomorrow we’ll be invited for tea with the queen of England.”

  They ate a quick breakfast at the hotel, packed their bags, and were in the hotel lobby by eight. At Amanda’s insistence, Cam had reported the incident to security, who in turn called the local police. Her instincts told her this had not been a random attack.

  A female officer, about Amanda’s age with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, met them in the lobby. Cam described the encounter. “I’m pretty sure it was just wrong place, wrong time,” he said. Amanda knew he didn’t want to mention the swagger sword. And she sensed he had downplayed the severity of the incident when describing it to her and, now, to the policewoman. “You know, tourist running around aimlessly, probably with cash in his pockets.”

  Big-boned but not fat, the officer studied him closely. “Do joggers in the States normally carry cash?” She glanced at Amanda, as if the two of them together needed to treat Cam like a child. “Because here in Ireland, they don’t generally stop to shop.”

  Cam shrugged, flushing as Amanda grinned, appreciative of the sarcasm. “No. I guess not.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me?” She didn’t seem angry, just bemused.

  He shrugged again. “Not that I can think of.”

  “Okay, let’s do this.” She smiled, again directed at Amanda. “We both know you’re pretending to tell me the truth. So I, in turn, will pretend to do a full investigation. And I’ll also pretend to call ahead to the other cities you’re traveling to, to ask for local police to keep an eye on you and your family.”

  “Okay.” Cam exhaled. “There is actually one other detail that may be important.”

  She titled her head. “Is that so?”

  Cam explained, as succinctly as he could, the possibility that the secret to finding a medieval treasure might be imbedded in the carvings on a sword blade smuggled over to Ireland by his childhood friend. It was Cam’s turn to tilt his head. “See why I left that part out?”

  “I do.” The officer sucked air through her teeth, making a whistling noise. “You think that’s what our boys were after?”

>   “I heard them mention something about finding answers about the sword.”

  “Well, I guess that explains motive.” She explained to them that fellow officers had found the van on the curb as Cam had left it; it had been stolen the night before from a florist who had left it running while making a delivery. “So not much to go on. But now that I understand what this is all about, I’ll dig a little deeper.”

  “I appreciate that,” Cam said. “And if you could keep the sword stuff quiet, I’d appreciate that also.”

  “I understand.” She handed him her card, then took it back and wrote something on the back. “I assume you’re heading to Galway at some point?”

  Cam nodded.

  “My brother’s a Guard there.” Amanda knew that’s what the Irish called their national police force, the Garda. “I just wrote down his name. Give him a ring if you need anything.” She smiled. “We both fancy a good mystery. Especially one with a treasure.”

  Amanda smiled at her and offered her hand. “Thanks for your time. And your patience.”

  Hotel security had arranged for the rental car to be brought to the parking garage under the hotel, just in case the thugs from the van were still about. Their departure, with Amanda driving, went without incident.

  Even so, it wasn’t until they put several miles between themselves and the hotel that Amanda began to relax. Danger always seemed to follow them. Or, more accurately, they attracted it—their research into the Templars and their legends acted like a magnet, luring rogues and conspiracy theorists and other shadowy types. This Brian bloke was a perfect example. She wished Cam would have simply refused his overtures. But she knew better. Cam always seemed to look for the good in people, always wanted to do the generous thing, especially with Monsignor Marcotte prodding him along. No matter how many times it seemed to burn him. But, of course, that was the man she had fallen in love with.

  She sighed, pushing her introspection away. On the city streets, moving slowly, she had no trouble staying in her lane. But as they picked up the pace, she had to concentrate on driving on the left. “Wow,” she said, fighting her instincts, “I’ve never felt more like a bloody American.”

  “When you finally get used to it, it’ll be time to go back home and mess you up all over again,” Cam chuckled. For the first twenty minutes, Amanda noticed he had been focused on his side view mirror, concerned they might be followed. Now he, too, had relaxed.

  The city of Dublin quickly gave way to farmland. Even in late December the landscape remained the lush green hue that Ireland was famous for. Unlike in America and most of the rest of Europe, little of the land surrounding Irish cities had been converted to residential use. Without a growing population, there simply was no need for suburbs. Or, for that matter, superhighways. The roads were winding, rutted and narrow, and Amanda often had to slow and edge toward the thin shoulder to allow a large vehicle coming at them to squeeze by.

  “It’s actually fortunate that so many of these farms have been preserved,” Amanda said, eyeing goats only feet away from the road, “because by preserving them the burial mounds have also been preserved. Elsewhere in the British Isles many of the mounds have been plowed over.”

  Astarte sat in the back, behind Cam. “I read the Irish are also, like, wicked superstitious and don’t like to disturb the dead,” she said.

  Amanda smiled. She wasn’t surprised the girl had done some research on the mounds. “What else did you learn?” Amanda asked.

  “Well, Newgrange and other burial mounds are older than the Pyramids. Some of them are more than five thousand years old.”

  “The only manmade site I can think of older than that is Gobekli Tepe in Turkey,” Cam said. “And that’s off the charts, built over eleven thousand years ago.”

  An hour later, after a few wrong turns and reversals of course, with Cam navigating, they finally honed in on their destination. Amanda teased, “You certain you don’t want to circle around again? I think we passed that little market three times already.”

  “I’m doing it on purpose.” Cam smiled. “To make sure nobody’s following us.”

  Astarte rolled her eyes. “I don’t think anyone could follow what we just did. Good thing I don’t get carsick.”

  “There,” Cam declared victoriously. He pointed to a sign reading ‘Milano Farm and Inn,’ and Amanda turned onto a dirt drive in a gap between farm plots. A few trees dotted the landscape but for the most part the land had been cleared for crops and grazing. A fieldstone structure, L-shaped with each span featuring a bright red door at its center, sat at the end of the winding drive. A mud-covered black pickup sat parked in front. A woman wearing a cloak and bonnet balanced on a tree swing at the far end of the L, swaying slowly. She watched them but did not greet them or otherwise acknowledge their arrival as they came to a stop.

  “Odd,” Amanda commented as she opened her door.

  As if she could hear Amanda’s comment, the woman slid off the swing and half-ran, her arms held stiffly at her side, toward the back of the farm, disappearing behind it.

  “No way could she have heard you,” Cam said.

  “Well, I don’t reckon I’ve made a new friend.”

  They stood by the side of the car, uncertain how to proceed. “Maybe she went to get someone,” Astarte said after a few seconds.

  Cam eyed the structure. “I think that’s a slate roof. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  “And look at those windows,” Amanda said.

  Cam explained to Astarte, “The older the structure, the smaller the windows usually. So this must be 1600s, maybe earlier.”

  Astarte made a face. “Do they have, like, internet?”

  Cam winked at Amanda. “I don’t think they even have electricity.” He pointed to a small shed. “And I think that’s the outhouse.”

  “Actually,” an olive-skinned, middle-aged man said, ambling down the drive from the street side of the farm, “that’s a woodshed. We make all our guests chop wood before breakfast.” He grinned at his own joke. “I’m Roberto. Roberto Fulcani,” he said, his accent clearly Italian. He held his grin. “Irish to my core. You must be Cameron.” He shook Cam’s hand and turned. “And you must be Amanda.” This time he cupped her hand in both of his, his dark eyes kind and playful. “And our woodcutter here must be Astarte.” He smiled at her. “Welcome to Milano Farm.”

  Amanda met his smile. “Well, that explains the name.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I am a huge fan of the Mint Milano cookies, made by Pepperidge Farm. I visited America once and ate three boxes.” He patted his stomach and eyed Astarte. “I have not been the same since. But I do love the Girl Scout Thin Mints cookies also. Perhaps you brought some with you?”

  “Sorry, no,” Astarte laughed. “So you named your farm after a cookie?”

  He held his palms up to the sky. “My family is originally from the city of Milan. It seemed appropriate.” He turned toward their rental car. “Come. Let’s get your bags and I will show you to your rooms.” He angled his chin at the farmhouse. “The back part of the L is where I live with my family. Three of us. The guest rooms are here in the front.”

  Amanda probed. “We saw a woman, in the swing?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “That is Emmy. My sister.” He shrugged. “She hit her head as a child and has never been the same.”

  “So how did you end up in Ireland?” Amanda asked, taking the cue from their host that he seemed comfortable discussing his family life.

  He flashed an easy smile. “How does any man end up so far from home? I followed my heart.” A thin, austere woman in a flannel shirt and blue work pants opened the front door to them. “And there she is,” he bellowed. “My Kaitlyn.”

  She sighed and glanced their way. “Welcome,” she said unsmilingly in a thick brogue. She could have been pretty once, Amanda thought, with a stylish dress, her hair down, and a smile on her face. “Roberto will show you your rooms. Dinner is at seven, and breakfast tomorrow at e
ight. Both in the front room here.” She gestured behind her. “Otherwise you may come and go as you please.”

  As they followed Roberto, Amanda wondered at the family. Running an inn, letting strangers into your life on a regular basis, was not for everyone. Or even for most people. Typically one partner pushed for it and the other went along. In this case it wasn’t hard to guess which was which. And then, on top of that, add a sibling with a mental disability of some kind. And apparently no children of their own, Amanda concluded with a pang. Probably not the life Kaitlyn dreamed of. And probably not the bonnie lass Roberto left Italy for, either.

  Their suite of rooms, despite the farmhouse’s age, was modern and tastefully decorated. It even had internet. Cam glanced at his watch. Not yet eleven. “Roberto apparently is an expert on Newgrange,” he said to Amanda and Astarte. “He’s going to take us over. And then to some other burial mounds also.” He grabbed his fleece jacket, carefully easing his injured arm into the sleeve. “Wear shoes for walking.”

  In the driveway, Roberto leaned against the pickup truck in the late morning sun. Emmy stood behind him, hunched, her head down, wearing a brown wool hooded poncho that hung just past her knees. “Cameron, Amanda, Astarte, this is my sister, Emmy. She’s going to join us today. Emmy, please say hello.”

  From deep inside her hood the woman whispered a greeting. “It’s a short drive on a back road,” Roberto announced cheerfully. “We can all fit in the truck.” Astarte and Emmy climbed into the bed of the truck and sat on the wheel wells while Cam and Amanda squished into the front seat with Roberto. Roberto followed a rutted path around to the back of the farm, where he merged onto a dirt road that climbed over yellowish-green farmland toward the horizon.