Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

Holding his gaze, Cam offered a small shrug.

  Poulos nodded. “Well, then at least be careful.”

  The ringing in his ears had yet to subside; he barely heard a man behind him clearing his throat as the policeman walked away. Turning, he looked up to see a tall priest. “Pardon me for interrupting. My name is Monsignor Marcotte. I am the pastor of Saint Catherine’s, the church up the street.” Monsignor. That explained the violet velvet trim on the front of his black priestly robes. Cam had driven by the large stone church on his first visit to the Gendrons and he knew they planned to leave their property to the church when they died. “I heard about the explosion and I ran right over.” Which explained why he was still wearing his robes. “I thought I might be of some comfort to Mr. and Mrs. Gendron, once they are finished speaking with the police.” He rested his blue eyes on Cam. “Of course, I am very sorry to hear about your cousin. I will pray for his recovery.”

  Cam nodded. “Thank you. We could all use some comforting.” He was not particularly observant—his Jewish mother and Catholic father raised him in both faiths, stressing the common messages and themes in the Judeo-Christian culture, but he could never quite make that leap of blind faith necessary to believe the words of the Old and New Testament were truly the words of God. In fact, as a historian—he majored in American history in college—he came to attribute many of the conflicts in the world to religious intolerance and bigotry. He had read once that God was like a mirror—the mirror never changed but the people who looked into it all saw something different. Unfortunately most people looked in and viewed their own face, confident it had been created in God’s own image.

  Despite his ambivalence toward organized religion, Cam recognized its many good works and the comfort it gave to billions. Just as the Monsignor was trying to comfort him now. And there was no denying the spirituality of the Monsignor—something soothing, an air of serenity and self-assuredness, poured out from his clear blue eyes. With his neat gray hair and easy manner, he reminded him of a Belgian diplomat who taught political science at Boston College Cam’s senior year.

  “Let me ask you, do you think this might be related to Mr. McLovick?”

  The McLovick situation was not the type of problem people normally discussed with their priest. Perhaps the Monsignor was not a normal type of priest. “They told you about that?”

  “Yes. They were tempted to take the money and make a gift of it to the parish now rather than when they died.” He smiled. “I told them to stay in their home—the church could wait for its money.”

  Good advice. “I do think it’s related,” Cam said. “But I’m still not sure why.”

  The Monsignor nodded and stared toward the tree-covered hill in the distance as if looking for divine guidance. “Do you have a theory?”

  An odd question. But Cam needed an ally and the Gendrons had apparently confided in Marcotte already. “Sort of. I know he has a history as a treasure hunter—salvaging shipwrecks and stuff like that. He must think something is buried in their back yard.” He paused. “Something worth killing for.”

  The Monsignor crossed himself and bowed his head in a quick, silent prayer. He lifted his head and nodded, a nod that indicated agreement rather than merely understanding. “I need to be careful here—you and I, as attorney and priest, we are required to keep certain communications in strict confidence. So please excuse my oblique approach to this conversation.” He took a deep breath. “In the event you intend to continue to represent Mr. and Mrs. Gendron in this matter….” He paused and raised an eyebrow, offering Cam the opportunity to respond.

  “Yes, I do. They need my help, and I’m responsible for what happened to Brandon—”

  The Monsignor lifted a hand to stop him, the silk robe rustling. “Nonsense. You did not plant the bomb. Whoever did so will have to answer to the proper authorities. In this world and the next.”

  “Well, that may be but the Bobcat idea was mine.” He shivered, remembering Brandon’s bloodied body. “I’ll continue to represent them as long as they want me to. And I’m going to find out who did this to Brandon.”

  “Good. I think they still need you. But I will suggest that you are only scratching the surface of this mystery, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Wait. How do you know my name?”

  The priest smiled. “I am familiar with your work in the sex abuse scandal cases.”

  He appreciated Marcotte’s candor. In all the months he worked on the case, nobody from the Church had ever referred to the case as a sex abuse scandal. It was always ‘the allegations’ or ‘the incident’ or ‘the unfortunate conduct.’

  “It took a lot of courage for you to do what you did. Leaking that testimony forced the Church to confront its crimes, to deal with its victims. Not many lawyers would have done what you did, risking your career like that.”

  Cam smiled wryly. “Priests and lawyers. Not exactly the most popular members of society right now, are we?”

  “And to think, mothers used to dream of their children becoming lawyers or clergymen.” He took a deep breath. “But, getting back to the matter at hand, my recommendation is that you make an appointment with a young woman named Amanda Spencer. You can reach her through the Westford library. Do so soon. I’ve never met her personally but I believe she can shed some light on this matter.” He lifted his hand and stroked his chin. “But be careful. As you have seen, this is a volatile situation.”

  Cam looked back toward the driveway. “I doubt McLovick will try anything else. He knows the police will be watching him.”

  “Regarding Mr. McLovick, consider this: If he planted the bomb, it means he is certain there is a treasure buried here, which makes him—whether in jail or not—a continuing danger.” The Monsignor raised his index finger. “But perhaps he had nothing to do with the bomb. And if that is the case, then I think the danger is even greater.”

  “I don’t follow.” Perhaps because his head was still ringing like a church bell.

  “Well, if Mr. McLovick didn’t plant the bomb, then someone else did. Someone who saw the Bobcat and wants to keep both the Gendrons and Mr. McLovick from digging. Someone who probably knows for certain what is buried in the back yard.”

  “Well, then, who?”

  The Monsignor shrugged. If he knew, he wasn’t telling.

  Cam eyed the priest. Marcotte held his gaze without blinking, a steady, kind half-smile on his face. The words the bailiff used in the courtroom while swearing in witnesses popped into his head: “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” He believed the priest was telling the truth and also probably nothing but the truth. But the whole truth, now that might be a different story.

  The police finished questioning the Gendrons and Emily immediately broke away and moved toward Cam and Father Marcotte. The Monsignor turned to embrace her before glancing back at Cam. “Make sure you contact Ms. Spencer. I think you’ll be fascinated by what you learn.”

  * * *

  Cam spent the early part of the afternoon at Massachusetts General Hospital. Brandon had been airlifted there and the surgeons were trying to save his life and, if possible, also his leg. Uncle Peter, his dark blue tie knotted tightly against his Adam’s apple and his thin brown hair combed neatly to the side like something out of an IBM training manual, sat tall in a chair and stared blankly at a wall through horn-rimmed glasses. He and Brandon were about as opposite as two people could be yet they had somehow found common ground. Perhaps he admired, even envied, Brandon’s ability to squeeze so much joy from life. Every once in a while he turned to Cam and asked him to recount, again, how the Bobcat blew. Cam left out the part about it being his idea to use the Bobcat to bait McLovick.

  Aunt Peggy alternately wept and twisted rosary beads in her hands, praying. She had apparently come straight from a power walk with her friends—her gray-blond hair was tucked under a pink Red Sox cap and she was still wearing one of those baby blue, matching sweatpants and top outfits that had been popular in the 1970s and were n
ow making a comeback. Cam paced back and forth, unable to offer any comfort to Brandon’s parents and unable to do anything about Brandon’s attackers.

  After an hour, he had had enough. He hated hospitals, probably because every time he went to one as a kid he had some doctor telling him he would go blind or have to have his feet amputated or even die if he didn’t take better care of himself. Now it was Brandon facing amputation and perhaps even death, while Cam seemed to have skated by death’s door. At his last visit to Boston’s Joslin Diabetes Clinic—he spent three days there during his bar suspension—they told him he was in fine health; with recent breakthroughs in diabetes treatment he would probably live to see his hair fall out and his chest sag to his belly and his erections wilt. It was the first time the doctors hadn’t hedged their bets. The welcome news, sagging and wilting aside, forced him to face a whole new question: What did he want to do with his life? He had coasted through law school and his professional career on talent alone—he seemed to have an innate ability to dig in and ferret out the key issue or fact that would turn a complex case. But he had never really had to work hard at it, never really had to fight to attain a lifelong dream. The question of what he wanted to do with his life was one he had never really pondered before—and he hadn’t gotten very far with it in the past year. But he knew what he needed to do right now.

  “Uncle Peter, I’m going to see if I can find out anything about who did this.” Cam’s parents were flying up from their vacation home in North Carolina and Brandon’s sister was driving down from Vermont so there would be plenty of family support.

  He jumped in his car and pulled out his cell phone as he drove north back to Westford. He called information, then dialed the Westford library number and asked to speak with Amanda Spencer. A woman took his name and number; ten minutes later his cell phone rang, ‘Unavailable’ flashing on the Caller ID display.

  “This is Amanda Spencer. You telephoned me?” A British accent.

  “Yes, Monsignor Marcotte suggested I contact you. This is regarding a situation involving Emily and Marvin Gendron, who are my clients.” Cam began to describe recent events.

  Ms. Spencer cut him off. “I am aware of today’s … accident.” Word sure traveled fast in this town. “If you wish me to discuss these matters with you, you will need to provide me with your full name and social security number, your date and place of birth, and three professional references.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  She repeated the terms, her tone patient but unyielding.

  “Look, lady, I don’t have time for this—”

  “Very well then. I wish you a good day, Mr. Thorne—”

  “Wait, wait.” He took a deep breath, squeezed the irritation out of his voice. He had no other leads in this case and he was becoming increasingly curious about what Ms. Spencer might be able to tell him. And how was it she already knew about the accident? He supplied the information, using law colleagues as references.

  “Very well. Meet me at noon tomorrow at the library. If I am not there, it is because your references were not satisfactory. In the meantime, I suggest that you familiarize yourself with the legend of the Westford Knight.”

  Again with the Westford Knight. After his encounter with the little girl at the library, he had Googled Prince Henry and the Westford Knight and learned of a stone carving commemorating the death of a medieval knight exploring the Westford area in 1398. Apparently a stone plaque marked the site. “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow at noon. How will I find you?”

  “You will not. I will find you, Mr. Thorne.” The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 3

  [Sunday]

  Cam woke up before five the next morning, his sleep tormented by visions of Brandon’s carefree face just before he turned the key of the Bobcat. When he had left Mass. General a little before midnight, Brandon was still holding on. Doctors had amputated part of one leg.

  He lifted his legs from under the covers, flexed them. What would life be like without the ability to walk or run? He rolled out of bed, threw on some biking shorts, a t-shirt and his running shoes and, after checking his blood sugar, wolfed down a frozen waffle. He also grabbed a small digital camera and slipped it into an inner pocket on his shorts.

  The morning air was cool and dry. The sun illuminated the treetops, a rainbow of leaves fluttering on the oaks as October began to sneak up on September. After stretching quickly he jogged to the end of his street, Pegasus by his side.

  Normally he ran around the lake, about a five mile loop. Today, instead, he turned away from the lake and headed out of the Nabnasset section of town toward the town center. He ran hard, eager to get a sweat going. He focused on the trees and the squirrels and the mist rising from the wetland areas bordering the road, trying to clear his head, to push the anger and outrage out of the front of his mind. He would call upon those emotions later, to fuel him and energize him. But for now he needed his analytical skills if he hoped to find Brandon’s attacker. Or attackers.

  As the sweat poured out of him and his breathing settled into an easy rhythm, he was finally able to focus on yesterday’s events in a semi-detached manner. It would be foolish to conclude Brandon was the intended target of the bomb. It was just as likely, perhaps more so, that the attacker had targeted Cam. After all, he had obtained the restraining order and advised the Gendrons not to sell the property. Which meant he could still be a target. And here he was, jogging along like an idiot, totally unaware of what or who might be targeting him. And totally unprepared. He veered into a wooded area and grabbed a thick branch about the size and heft of a baseball bat. Not much, but better than nothing. He watched for idling cars and out-of-place pedestrians and movements in the woods.

  At the bottom of a hill, where the Stonybrook River meandered through a lowland area, he crossed a narrow bridge and began climbing again on the opposite side of the slow-moving river. The incline up Depot Street led to the town center. But before he got there he would make a stop to do his homework.

  He made good time up the steep hill, his legs still fresh and strong, Pegasus keeping pace. About a mile up the hill, on the left just past an elementary school, five granite pillars, arranged in a pentagon and linked by a thick black chain, outlined the Westford Knight carving. He sprinted the last 50 yards and darted across the street, his hands behind his head to help fill his lungs after the long climb. The pillar and chain, only a few feet from the curb of the road, framed a ledge of flat, gray bedrock.

  “Stay,” he said to Pegasus.

  He read from a granite tombstone-like plaque marking the site:

  PRINCE HENRY FIRST SINCLAIR OF ORKNEY

  BORN IN SCOTLAND MADE A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

  TO NORTH AMERICA IN 1398. AFTER WINTERING

  IN NOVA SCOTIA HE SAILED TO MASSACHUSETTS

  AND ON AN INLAND EXPEDITION IN 1399

  TO PROSPECT HILL TO VIEW THE SURROUNDING

  COUNTRYSIDE ONE OF THE PARTY DIED. THE

  PUNCH-HOLE ARMORIAL EFFIGY WHICH ADORNS

  THIS LEDGE IS A MEMORIAL TO THIS KNIGHT.

  He had read about the Portuguese ruler, Prince Henry the Navigator. But this was a different Prince Henry. He snapped a picture of the marker.

  GRANITE MARKER AT WESTFORD KNIGHT SITE, DEPOT STREET, WESTFORD, MASSACHUSETTS, USA

  He dropped to a knee and studied the stone outcropping. He easily identified a series of closely-spaced, pea-size indentations engraved in the shape of a medieval battle sword, approximately three feet in length, complete with pommel, hilt and guard. Part of the blade itself was comprised of the glacial striations of the rock but the other features were clearly man-made. Fighting the morning shadows, he focused in with his camera on the sword image.

  [Photo courtesy Scott Wolter]

  THE SWORD OF THE WESTFORD KNIGHT

  Adjacent to the sword, faint chalk markings depicted the Knight’s shield. He turned his head, trying to ignore the chalk and focus on the markings in the rock. These markings wer
e far less evident than the punch-holes that formed the sword, perhaps nothing more than natural imperfections in the bedrock. Above the sword’s oval-shaped pommel he made out the faint image of the Knight’s head in the rock’s surface but, again, the markings were far less clear than the sword. He stood up and tried to view the effigy as a whole but remained uncertain whether what he saw was a medieval knight with sword and shield or just a medieval sword. Either way it was a fascinating artifact.

  Dropping back to a knee, he ran his fingers along the sword carving, imagined the ancient carver pecking at the rock in the hot sun, forcing the hard surface to yield to his tool. Was the legend true, was the ledge really carved by Scottish explorers a century before Columbus? If so, why were Prince Henry and his men wandering through Westford? Did they just happen upon it, exploring the land, or did they have more specific plans?

  He stood and gazed around, wondering if the body of a medieval knight was buried in the yard of one of the neighboring Colonial-style homes. Would one of the homeowners someday discover an armor-clad skeleton while digging a hole for a fencepost? He snapped a couple more pictures and reread the granite plaque before resuming his run.

  Monsignor Marcotte had referred him to Amanda Spencer, who had directed him to the Westford Knight. Apparently, therefore, the Monsignor believed the Knight was somehow related to the Gendrons’ property and the treasure. Was the Prince Henry party looking for some kind of treasure in Westford? Or had they buried one while here?

  He crossed the road to the sidewalk and continued his jog up the hill toward the town center, Pegasus still at his side and the club-like branch still in his right hand. The early Sunday morning traffic was light and what there was of it moved at a leisurely pace. It was hard to be in a rush at 6:00 on a Sunday morning. Which was why the roar of a car engine sent a wave of panic through him.

  He spun his head. A black, older-model Cadillac jumped the curb and barreled toward him, two tires on the sidewalk. Had they been following him and seen him studying the Knight carving? He sprinted ahead but a picket fence blocked his escape from the sidewalk. Remembering his training from the high school track team, he pumped his arms and raced along the fence line toward the shelter of a large oak tree where the fence ended. As Pegasus barked in warning, the car closed on him, now only feet away, the engine so loud that it sounded like it was coming from in front of him as well as behind. He forced his legs and arms to pump harder, his body to ignore the sharp pain in his lungs, his brain to resist the urge to spin and check the progress of the hurtling mass of steel. The heat of the car’s grill warmed the back of his legs like the hot breath of a monster at his heels. He fought back the panic. Vaulting the fence was a possibility but that would leave him splayed on the other side with only wooden slats between him and tons of careening vehicle. The engine roared even louder as the car downshifted on the steep incline, accelerating toward him. Now or never.