As if in response, Cam removed his phone from his jacket pocket and sent a text, using the aircraft’s in-flight cell service. After a quick exchange, he explained. “I’m going to stay over in New York for a day, visit Ruthie Sanders.” He smiled. “Can’t beat an eighty-year-old who knows how to text. We know she has more information, she mentioned a map in particular, stuff that wasn’t in Zena Halpern’s book. Clues to help us find that treasure. She made me promise I wouldn’t look at the docs and map until after she died. But maybe when I tell her what’s happening, she’ll change her mind.”
“Can’t you do it by phone?”
“This is her life’s work. I think in person would be more effective. And we’re going to be in New York anyway.”
Amanda would have preferred to join him, but someone needed to stay with Astarte, and she was fine with that. “Okay,” she said. “But I don’t think Astarte and I should go back to Westford just yet.”
“Agreed. Head to the condo. Do some skiing.” They had bought a unit at Loon Mountain in New Hampshire, hiding their ownership in a trust. Nobody else knew about it. “I’ll meet you up there.”
“Good. But you have to promise that you won’t go looking for treasure without me.”
“Without us,” Astarte added.
Cam smiled. “You know I’d never search without you guys. I need your help to carry all the supplies.”
Ruthie Sanders didn’t like to lie. But this was one of those white lies that didn’t hurt anyone. Besides, she never actually told Cameron she made the soup herself…
Seated at her kitchen table, she picked up the phone and dialed the number of the local deli. “Hi, Menachem. Is it too late to get a delivery for today? I’m having last-minute company.” Cameron had texted from the plane, so it must be important. He had been cryptic, saying only that he was working on the Templar treasure in the Catskills and wanted to talk about her map.
“For you, anything,” Menachem had said. Ruthie had been married to Menachem’s older brother, a pharmacist, who died suddenly of a heart attack more than thirty years ago. In her grief, and as a way to keep busy, she had joined a local group exploring the mysterious stone chambers of the Hudson Valley. Now, decades later, she knew as much about them, and other ancient New England artifacts, as anyone alive.
“Half a pound of smoked turkey and four sesame bagels.” That was for her. “And a quart of matzo ball soup. Floaters, not sinkers.”
“Of course,” Menachem laughed.
“Oh, and some of those marzipan cookies.”
“I’ll send it over after the lunch crowd leaves.”
Ruthie checked her watch. Barely eleven. Cameron said he’d arrive around dinner time. She needed to wash up, dress, and tidy the house before he arrived. She remembered, in her forties, visiting her aunt and uncle in Miami and laughing at how a trip to the drug store, lunch, and a game of Scrabble seemed to fill an entire day. Now the idea of driving to the deli, which she used to do without a second thought, had become a series of daunting tasks—warming up the car, navigating the traffic-clogged streets (must everyone drive those oversized SUVs?), finding a parking space, walking across the snow-covered parking lot, standing in line, securing the soup in the car so that it did not spill. She would happily tip the delivery boy.
After walking on her treadmill for a half hour and showering, Ruthie dressed and did her face. She cut up a grapefruit for lunch, saving room for the bagels as a mid-afternoon snack. She wondered about Cameron’s visit. He must have found something in Ireland relating to the Templars. As she ran a wet paper towel over her kitchen table, the doorbell rang. Probably the delivery boy, arriving early. She imagined the warm bagel. “Coming,” she sang. Maybe she’d even treat herself to a couple of the matzo balls.
She unbolted the door and reached for the knob. But before she could turn it, the door flew at her, crashing into her shoulder and knocking her to the floor. What in heavens? Dazed, she did not even see the three burly men push their way inside. One of them leaned into her face, his nose inches from hers, the rim of his cap pushing into her forehead. She blinked and recoiled, her hip throbbing from where she landed. “Nobody has to get hurt, grandma. Just do as we say.”
Ruthie took a deep breath and steeled herself. I’m not your grandma. She knew men like this, had had nightmares about them since her days as a young child living in Poland during the Holocaust. Large men with small minds, cold hearts, and brown teeth. Why was it that evil men always seemed to have discolored teeth? It was a random thought, but a comforting one—it meant that her fear had not overwhelmed her, that her mind was functioning. Men like this could never truly defeat her, not after what she had lived through. Play to their greed. “I have money, in my purse,” she declared, looking the intruder in the eye. She held out her wrist. “And this watch.”
The man in the cap grabbed her wrist, twisting, but ignored the watch. He hauled her to her feet; she grabbed the edge of a table to steady herself. He was clearly the leader, while the other guys, younger and skittish, had closed the door and now kept watch out her front window. “We don’t want your money. We want the map.” His eyes were steady, and he patted what she saw was a gun tucked into his waistband. “The Templar map.”
Her racing heart now fluttered. Not the map. She had assumed this was a random burglary, and it took a second for her brain to recalibrate, to adjust to biting into an orange and tasting tuna fish. “Who sent you?” This was a different kind of danger than she originally expected.
The man in the cap grabbed her by the nape of her neck and shoved her back toward the living room. She pretended that her hip had given way, prepared herself to stumble. But he held her up like a ragdoll. “I’m not asking again. The map.”
“Yes. The map. In my bedroom. A safe.”
He turned to his accomplices. “Wait here. You watch the front, you watch the back.” And to Ruthie. “Come on.”
She made a point of moaning, of shuffling along as she led him down the hallway toward her bedroom. The slower she moved, the faster her brain worked. She remembered Poland, being five years old, the men in black shiny boots coming in the night, her mother screaming at her father to do something, to do anything, to protect his family. And her father, his eyeglasses crooked on his face, opening the door, stepping aside, letting the men in, letting them round the family up and take them away. “How can you just … kapitulacja?” her mother had wailed. Capitulate was the English word, Ruthie later learned. But for years that word, kapitulacja, echoed in her head and haunted her dreams. Her father, her weak father, had done nothing. Now it was her turn. Better to be brave and die than to be weak and live. She took a deep breath. But, better still was to be brave and survive.
She pushed open the bedroom door, hesitating. Play your part. Meek and weak. “Sorry, I have not made the bed yet.”
“Lady, I don’t give a shit about your bed.” He shoved her forward. “Come on.”
“Okay. The safe is in there.” She led him into a walk-in closet and pointed, hand shaking, to a wall of clothes hanging from a rod. “Behind those dresses.”
He motioned. “Open it.”
Whimpering, she lowered herself to one knee and pushed the dresses aside. Mostly obscured by the hanging clothes, she jabbed at the digital screen with a steady finger. The door opened silently. She reached inside and felt around. “Oh. I hit the wrong button. I am so sorry. Please do not hurt me.” She hiccupped. “I am just so nervous.”
“Try it again,” he sneered.
“Can you hold back some of these clothes?” she asked.
He leaned in, one arm sweeping back her clothes, his face buried in fabric, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting off his clothes. She allowed herself a small smile. Her fingers gripped the Glock 43, specifically designed for a woman’s small hand. Silently she raised the weapon and, without remorse, fired three quick shots through her gold sequined evening dress into the intruder’s chest. He toppled toward her, grunting, capitulating, her clot
hes still grasped in his arms. Blood pooled on the carpet as the sound of heavy steps pounded toward her. The same sound that had haunted her nightmares for almost eighty years.
She had three shots left. That was one of the drawbacks of the Glock, only six shots. Plus the element of surprise was gone, and the intruders outnumbered her. She took a deep breath. It was in God’s hands now. Reaching over the dead intruder, she closed the safe, her hand remarkably steady. She scooched to the far side of the closet and concealed herself behind another row of hanging clothes. They might get her. But they weren’t getting her map.
The flight landed just after three o’clock New York time. Cam retrieved his bag, helped Amanda and Astarte transfer to a shuttle back to Boston, rented a sedan, and by evening rush hour had joined a line of commuters headed for Long Island. He fought to stay alert—it was almost midnight Ireland time, and he had barely slept the night before.
He arched his head back slowly. Nothing like a trans-Atlantic flight to help with a stiff neck. In a perverse way, the discomfort was a blessing, keeping him from nodding off. The app on his phone directed him off the highway to avoid some traffic, and forty-five minutes later he turned onto Ruthie’s street in a grid-like neighborhood tucked between some power lines and an office park. Immediately his foot hit the brake. Two police cars and a dark van sat in front of Ruthie’s house, and police tape blocked the driveway. Please, no. Ramming the rental car against a snow bank beneath a streetlight, Cam leapt out and ran.
He made it as far as the front walk. “Sorry, sir,” a young policewoman said, “you’ll have to stay back. Crime scene.”
“What happened? I’m a friend of the home owner, Ruthie Sanders.”
“We’re not allowed to give out any information. Active investigation.”
He looked past her, saw a pair of officers profiled in the living room. “Can you tell me if she’s okay?”
As she shook her head, his phone rang. Did she mean she couldn’t tell him, or that Ruthie wasn’t okay? He glanced at his phone. A New York number, unknown to him. Normally he would have ignored the call, but his instincts spurred him to answer. “Cameron Thorne.”
“Mr. Thorne, this is Officer Barnett from the New York State Police. Do you know a Mrs. Ruthie Sanders?”
They must have seen his number on her phone from his text. He feared the worst. Swallowing, he muttered, “I’m actually standing out front.”
“Please stay there. We’re going to need to ask you some questions.”
Amanda and Astarte had landed in Boston and were driving Cam’s Pathfinder up Route 93 in the evening rush hour. “Nice work, Mum, staying on the right side of the road.”
“No use trying to fight the heathens,” she said with a smile. Some of the past few months’ sadness had wafted over her when they landed, but not nearly as bad as before their holiday. Hopefully the depression was behind her. As they crossed the border into New Hampshire, traffic thinned. “We’re still more than an hour away. You want to stop for dinner?”
“How about pizza?” Astarte smiled.
“Right. It’s been, what, five days? I’m surprised you don’t have the shakes—”
The Bluetooth interrupted, announcing a call from Cam’s cell. Amanda answered. “Hi, Honey.”
“Don’t tell me where you,” he said tersely. “Just tell me if you’ve arrived at your destination yet.
“No. Why?”
“Thank goodness. Get off at the next exit.”
“Why?”
“Ruthie’s been murdered. I think we’re all in danger.”
The words hit Amanda like a rogue wave. She gripped the steering wheel, her eyes reflexively looking in the rearview window. “Murdered? By who?”
Cam explained what he had learned from the reenactment team. “She killed the first guy, by the safe. Then she got the second guy when he came to investigate. The third guy shot her, but based on the blood trail the cops think she winged him. The cops were pretty impressed. She might have taken them all, but she ran out of bullets.”
Amanda wasn’t sure how to respond. “Was it random?” She pulled off the exit and into a gas station parking lot.
“The cops thought so originally. But then I told them about the map in her safe. They found a bug on her phone.” He lowered his voice. “So it was my text that alerted them. Amanda, my text killed her.”
She steeled her voice. “No, Cameron, three thugs killed her. Not you. And at least two of them got what they deserved.”
He exhaled. “What they deserved, but not what they came for. Her safe was closed when the cops arrived.”
“Wow. Tough old bird. She fought them off. All for some bloody map.”
Amanda guessed that the map was what Ruthie digitized and put on the cloud for Cam to access after she died. But she wasn’t going to say so over the phone and put Cam in even more danger. “Where is the map now?”
“The cops have the stuff at the station. They got a locksmith to pick the safe.”
“So who were the blokes?”
“Just three local wise guys. Hired by someone to do their dirty work.”
“The same someone who came after you in Ireland.”
“And the same someone who may be looking for us now. So, like I said, don’t go to the place we talked about. These guys obviously mean business.” Which meant they probably had the wherewithal to trace the ski condo back to Cam. “We have to assume our phones are hacked also, or soon will be. So turn off your traffic app and ‘find me’ apps and anything else with tracking.”
She nodded to Astarte, who began to jab at her phone. “Cam, I have an idea.” They needed to figure out a place to meet. “Remember our friends who just got engaged?” The couple shared an exercise app, the same one used by Cam and Amanda, and the man proposed by jogging in a pattern that spelled out the words, “Marry me?” on the app’s screen display.
“Yes.”
“Give me ten minutes. Love you, and be safe.” She ended the call.
She pulled out of the gas station and turned into an office park, its parking lot mostly empty in the late evening. Using the lines as a guide, she drove in a careful pattern, spelling out the letters, I-N-H-O-C.
“I get it,” Astarte said, “The ‘In Hoc’ carving in Newport.”
The rock carving read in full, ‘In Hoc Signo Vinces,’ a battle cry used by the medieval Templars. The carving, located in the surf not far from the Newport Tower and only visible during low tide, exhibited considerable aging. Amanda and Cam believed it may have been left by the same Templar-related explorers who built the Newport Tower.
“Hopefully Cam will figure it out also,” Amanda said. Newport made for a good meeting spot, about halfway between Long Island and southern New Hampshire.
“Of course he will. Dad loves stuff like that.” Astarte chewed on her lip. “And not many people know where the carving is, even if they figure out the code. Good choice, Mum.”
“And if they do figure it out, I’m hoping the first two letters throw them off, make them think we are “in” someplace with the abbreviation “H-O-C.”
Astarte smiled. “Aha. Even better.”
Amanda reversed course and headed back to the highway.
Astarte seemed to be handling this well, but an elderly woman had been murdered, which put them in obvious danger. To keep the girl from fixating on the murder, Amanda asked Astarte about the In Hoc stone. They had brought her with them to examine the carved boulder over the summer. “Do you still have a picture on your phone?”
Astarte pulled it up.
“What do you remember about it?”
“I liked the way lots of people all worked together to figure out the mystery. The geologist said it was a really hard rock, and parts of the carving were worn away which meant it couldn’t be modern. And then one guy noticed it said ‘Ding’ on the back, and someone else said that’s an old medieval English word for ‘fight.’ And then one of the Freemasons said he’s seen the saying on jewelry some of
the Brothers wear.” She paused to think. “Oh, and there was a woman who said the letter ‘V’ wasn’t used until after about the year 1300, so it probably wasn’t any older than that.”
Amanda smiled. “Good memory. And don’t forget, the area where it’s located is where the Templars would have landed when they arrived in Newport. And we know it was used by the Templars as a battle cry.” It didn’t prove the Templars brought treasure to America, but it was one of many artifacts that seemed to prove they were here.
“So do you think the Templars carved it?” Astarte asked.
“I can’t say for certain, but you’d have to be blinkered to ignore the obvious connections.”
Cam drove north, hugging the Atlantic coast, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He bounced between anger at Ruthie’s death, pride at her stubborn bravery, guilt at having put her in danger, and exasperation that people were dying over ancient documents. But his constant feeling was one of cold fear: He had, unwittingly, once again put Amanda and Astarte in danger.
He glanced down at the speedometer, surprised to see his body had reacted to his anger and anxiety by depressing the gas pedal. He eased back ten miles per hour to 75.
Amanda’s suggestion to meet in Newport, and her cleverness in communicating it to him, had been inspired. As had Ruthie’s intuitive decision to digitize her map and documents and give him the password back in November. He let out an anguished sigh. Whatever story the documents told, or treasure they led to, it was not worth dying for.
He had withdrawn a thousand dollars from an ATM after leaving Ruthie’s house—his pursuers knew he was on Long Island, so there was no further danger to revealing his location. But going forward he and Amanda would need to stay off the grid. He knew a Bed and Breakfast where they could pay cash, and he had purchased three more disposable smartphones. Had he known what lay ahead, he would have bought stock in Tracfone before leaving for Ireland.
The Swagger Sword Page 13
