Almost involuntarily, he sprinted back toward the restaurant, grabbing the mop for a weapon. It was a careless move, a stupid move that might draw attention to himself even as the henchmen were set to screech off in pursuit of the mulch truck. But he couldn’t help himself. He had made the mistake of allowing his mind to picture the two men roughing up Amanda and now his mutinous heart had overruled his brain. Run, the organ commanded his legs, and Cam could no sooner stop his limbs from obeying than he could prevent them from reflexively pulling away from the touch of a hot stove. The best his brain could do was convince his eyes to stay focused on the front door and be prepared to duck and hide if the thugs emerged.
Thankfully, blessedly even, the ruffians burst through the swinging door. Cam leaned on the mop and turned his face toward the wall of the restaurant. The thugs ran right by, ignoring the dimwitted, mop-wielding janitor.
In light of his foolish sprint back to try to save Amanda from the two trained ruffians with a wooden mop, their assessment of him as a dimwit was not far from the truth.
* * *
“Honest,” Cam pleaded, his brown eyes large and expressive. “I was coming back to help you.”
They had returned to the Subaru, heading north. Amanda was enjoying herself—she sensed that Cam wasn’t certain if she was peeved at him. Normally she was a clumsy flirt, especially with American guys who didn’t seem to appreciate her sarcasm. But the rash on her face liberated her—he wasn’t likely to find her attractive in any event so she could just be herself and have some fun with it. “Rubbish,” she retorted. “You were probably out looking for some harlot to pair up with. You were going to leave me in that loo forever.”
He laughed. “Yeah, like a modern day Rapunzel. After a few years you could throw your golden locks out the bathroom window and hope some prince would rescue you.”
She liked his wit, his ability to banter and verbally joust. “It’s a shame I don’t know any princes.”
“Not true.” He arched an eyebrow. “You told me I’m part of the Rex Deus line.”
Turning in her seat, she made a pretense of sizing him up for the first time. Not too shabby. Handsome, fit, sweet, smart. Not to mention the puppy dog eyes and an easy smile. Too bad she looked like a swamp monster. At least she hadn’t caught him staring at her pus or blisters. “Well, I suppose you’d do in a pinch.”
“Wow, a ringing endorsement,” he laughed. “But kidding aside, I think we need to do something about your hair. It makes it too easy to spot you.”
She bent over, fished a bottle of hair color out of her shopping bag. “I’m one step ahead of you, just waiting to arrive at a room with a shower.”
“I guess no more Rapunzel jokes. What color do you have?”
“Well, it says brunette but my hair is so light it reacts oddly to these dyes. I sported purple hair for a bit in college.”
“Great, that will make you blend right in.”
She settled back in her seat. “So what’s all this about a law suspension?”
They passed a green highway sign—still a couple hundred miles to Augusta. “It actually starts way back when I was a kid growing up in Andover. I was about 12 and I had this friend—his name was Marty, he was my best friend—who lived down the street.” She studied him as he spoke. Even with a goatee he had a boyish face—eager eyes and a couple of wisps of brown hair that fell over his eyebrows—so it wasn’t difficult to picture him as a youth. Unlike most men in their thirties, he hadn’t developed even the hint of jowls or an extra chin. He looked a bit like the boy next door but with an edge. Which made him the boy next door that the girls wanted to sneak into the woods with. “We did all the stuff 12-year-old boys do—played sports, rode our bikes, watched horror movies—”
“Chased girls, no doubt.”
“Actually, not. That didn’t really start for us until a year or two later.”
“That’s because I wasn’t there.”
“No doubt,” he smiled. “I would have quit both hockey and baseball for you.”
“No doubt.”
“So, anyway, the summer after sixth grade, Marty’s parents sent him up to a YMCA summer camp up in Maine. When he came back, he was … different. I guess sullen is the word. This went on for a couple of months and I started hanging out with him less. But on Halloween we went out together. We thought it would be fun to put on monster masks and jump out of the bushes and scare the little kids.” He shook his head. “Well, Marty’s idea of scaring them was different from mine. He pushed them down, took their candy. He even punched one kid in the stomach. So I told him to stop being a jerk. Well, one thing led to another and we started fighting. He was bigger than me but he wasn’t very strong. I put him in a headlock until he calmed down. Then I told him I didn’t want to be friends anymore and I ran home.”
“And?”
He blinked a couple of times, rubbing the back of his hand across his brow. “And the next morning they found him dead, hanging from a belt in his bedroom. No note, no explanation. Just a young kid who was hurting so much that he wanted to die. I had no idea.”
She reached over, rested her hand on his shoulder. “What a horrid story. You don’t blame yourself, do you?”
“Actually, for years I did. I figured if I had been a better friend….” He paused, took a deep breath. “Anyway, twenty-plus years later, I’m working on this priest sex abuse case, and I’m reading one of the case files, and the guy is talking about being abused at a YMCA summer camp in Maine. And of course it all just made perfect sense. It was the same camp Marty was at.”
“And for all that time you blamed yourself for Marty’s death,” she whispered.
“Right. But that’s not what pissed me off. What pissed me off is that some … animal just sucked Marty’s will to live right out of him.” He shook his head. “And then these maggots covered it up, let this priest go right on molesting kids even after they knew what was happening. I just don’t understand it—I know a lot of good, honest, devoted priests. Why did they allow this to continue?”
“It wasn’t those priests who knew about it,” she frowned. “Weren’t other lawyers at your firm hacked off about representing the Church in these cases?”
“Lawyers have an amazing ability to be self-righteous. They’ll spout out stuff about everyone having the Constitutional right to an attorney, blah, blah, blah. Well, they’re right, everyone does have that right. And it’s important to make sure the poor and the dispossessed and the minorities don’t just get railroaded through the court system. But that doesn’t mean priests who molest dozens of young kids have the right to have a team of lawyers defend them by attacking the people they molested.”
“They did that?”
“It’s really the only defense they had. Try to make things so painful and uncomfortable and embarrassing that these guys would just settle. But I couldn’t go along with it. Not after what happened to Marty. So I leaked some stuff to the press, internal firm memos that outlined the defense strategy. The judge threatened the reporter with jail time if he didn’t give up his source.”
She crinkled her nose. “And for this you were punished?”
He laughed. “Well, this goes back to how lawyers take themselves way too seriously. I had one guy say to me in this horrified voice, ‘But you violated the attorney-client privilege!’ Like it was as bad as what the priests did. Well, yeah, I did. But just because something is against the rules doesn’t make it wrong, just like because something is legal doesn’t make it right. I mean, everything the Nazis did was technically legal based on the laws they pushed through.” He shook his head. “I had a law professor once who used to quote Dickens, ‘Sometimes the law is an ass.’”
She waited for him to continue but apparently that was the entire story. “Well, I’m afraid I was a bit of an ass myself when I first met you.”
“Not really,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “At least not compared to the guy who tried to run me over.”
She grinn
ed. “Most of the solicitors I know are so serious.”
He stared at the highway. “I read something once: After God created the world, he made man and woman. Then he invented humor to keep the whole thing from collapsing.”
“And I read once that humor is the shortest distance between two people.”
“I guess they’re really saying the same thing.”
They rode in silence for a few seconds, each alone with their thoughts. He spoke first. “One thing I never asked you was what you thought about the enclosure in the Gendrons’ back yard.”
She didn’t think twice about violating the protocols again. “That’s quite an interesting site. There are reports of the Boat Stone going back to 1900. Nobody paid it much attention until the 1960s when an amateur archeologist by the name of Glynn stumbled upon it. Glynn consulted with an expert in England, who theorized it was a marker for an encampment site. Nobody recalled which way the arrow originally pointed so the expert recommended pacing off 184 paces—remember, the Boat Stone has the number ‘184’ carved on it, though to be fair some folks don’t think the 8 is really an 8 because the top isn’t closed. In any event, Glynn did his pacing and found the rectangular stone layout in what at the time was a wooded area. When Glynn returned the next summer to excavate the site, he reported that the enclosure was gone, plowed over to build a home. As far as I know, that’s what everyone has believed since.”
“But it wasn’t plowed over. It’s still there. I saw it.”
“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow. “So the question is, why did Glynn report it destroyed?”
He slapped the steering wheel. “Because he found something there and didn’t want anyone else to disturb it. Or find it.”
Glynn’s report had never made sense to her. Until now.
“So what happened to Glynn?” Cam asked.
“He died soon after.” She held up her hand. “And before you inquire, I don’t know if it was under suspicious circumstances.”
“Well, either way, apparently he took his secret with him.”
“Yes. Until Alistair McLovick arrived.”
“And now McLovick is dead also.” He pursed his lips. “And we still don’t know anything about any treasure.”
“Speaking of treasure, did you ever read Treasure Island when you were a lad?”
“Sure. I loved that book.”
“Well, I stumbled upon an interesting theory a few months back. Apparently Robert Louis Stevenson grew up in Scotland, close to Roslyn Chapel. What’s interesting is he chose the name Gunn for the chap who was the only inhabitant of the island in the story. An island that contained a vast buried treasure. An island which he described as an unknown land far to the west.”
He turned. “Gunn. As in Sir James Gunn.”
“Spot on. Spelled the same.”
“And Ben Gunn was left alone with the treasure, same as Sir James.” He drummed on the steering wheel. “When was Treasure Island written?”
“Late 1800s. Well before anyone in the States had heard of the Westford Knight.”
“So the theory is that Stevenson knew about the Sinclair treasure, that Treasure Island was based on the old Sinclair family legends?”
Amanda smiled. “Well, I did some more research. It happens that Robert Louis Stevenson’s mother is part of the Sinclair clan.”
Shaking his head, Cam grinned. “Why did I just know you were going to say something like that?”
* * *
As he and Amanda sped north through southern Maine, Cam dialed Brandon’s TracFone.
“Hey, Cam.”
“So how you doing?”
“It’s weird. It hurts where my foot used to be. You know, phantom pain. They say I need more rest; they keep threatening to take away my laptop.”
“Well, don’t overdo it.” He explained who Frank Glynn was. “But if you’re up to it, I’d like to know when he died. And how.”
“Okay. And I’ve got a couple of things for you. Poulos called. The BMW is registered to some shell corporation. Nothing but a post office box for an address. He’s trying to chase it down.”
“No surprise. What else?”
“Monsignor Marcotte called, not sure how he found me. My dad talked to him for a long time. He’s still waiting for you to call him.”
“Yeah, I’ve been a bit busy.” He explained the incident at the rest area. “So, someone is definitely tracking us.”
“Could it be this Amanda chick?” he whispered.
His stomach clenched. “I don’t think so.” He quickly glanced over, tried to study her expression. If she wanted to set him up, she easily could have done so already. For example, when he picked her up after separating in Newport. “No, that doesn’t add up.”
“Well, who is it then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ve been looking at this Oak Island Money Pit.” Cam held the phone so Amanda could listen. “The two theories are that it’s either a pirate treasure or a Templar treasure. But check this out. The skull and crossbones on the pirate flag--”
“The Jolly Roger?” Cam interrupted.
“Yeah. Well, it’s actually a Templar symbol. It’s still used in Masonic rituals. Anyway, it turns out that after the Pope outlawed the Templars in the 14th century a bunch of them became pirates.”
“Pirates? I thought they were religious knights.”
“They were,” Brandon agreed, “until the Pope arrested and tortured and outlawed them. At that point, what did they have to lose? They had ships and no place to call home. Later, other pirates started using the Jolly Roger because they knew nobody wanted to mess with the Templars.”
“Wait until your dad finds out. He’ll probably sue them for trademark infringement.”
“Brandon’s spot on,” Amanda said as they laughed. “The Templars definitely possessed the engineering skills to build a booby-trapped pit like that. In some ways, the pit is like the pyramids in Egypt with their water traps. Hard to believe any pirates had the skills to build something so elaborate. But if Templar ships, flying the Jolly Roger, sailed in and its crew dug the Money Pit, well, that would be consistent with your Native American oral history of pirates constructing it.”
Now the pirates were involved too. Cam heard Uncle Peter’s voice asking if the aliens would be arriving on the scene soon. But the crazy thing was, it all made sense.
Cam put the phone back to his ear. “All right, it’s just me again.”
“Nice accent. She hot?” Brandon asked.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact.” He barely noticed her rash and blisters anymore—he always seemed to be staring at her eyes or teeth. “What about the Spirit Pond Rune Stones up in Maine? Learn anything?”
“Not much. Most people think they’re fake. Some guy named Eric Forsberg from Minnesota is going to be in Fitchburg this week giving a talk about them. He’s an expert on the Kensington Rune Stone out in Minnesota—people have been debating whether that’s a hoax or not for over a century. This Forsberg guy thinks the Kensington and Spirit Pond stones are related. It’s part of some conference run by the New England Antiquities Research Association, NEARA.”
Cam wrote down the conference details. “Thanks, Brandon. Get some rest.” He hung up and turned to Amanda. “We were talking about you.”
“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “Mind if I open the window a bit? I suddenly feel quite hot.”
* * *
Cam pulled into the dark parking lot of a Motel 6 outside of Augusta at around 10:30. “I was thinking it might be better if you stayed in the car,” he said to Amanda. “They’ll remember your hair.”
“Be honest. You just don’t fancy being seen cavorting with Mrs. Frankenstein.”
He chuckled as he walked to the office area. After the day they’d had, most women—and men, for that matter—would be edgy and tense; Amanda was not only making jokes but ones at her own expense. He paid cash for a pair of rooms with a connecting door.
He parked the Subaru
around back and handed Amanda a key, shifting awkwardly from one foot to another. What next? A handshake? A wave? Some kind of kiss?
She made the decision for him, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his chest, squeezing him to her. He breathed her in, the same clean, floral smell he first noticed in the library. “I’d invite you in,” she said, pulling back a bit to look in his eyes, “but I must wash my hair.” She held up the bottle of hair dye, smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Cameron. And thanks for a … memorable day.”
CHAPTER 6
[Tuesday]
Cam woke a bit before 6:00, pretty sure it was Tuesday. He wanted to go for a long run but settled for a hundred push-ups and twice as many sit-ups on the floor of the room. After showering, he wrapped a thin white towel from the rack above the toilet around his waist and walked out of the bathroom.
“Good day,” a voice sang out, startling him. He held the towel closed with one hand.
Amanda was leaning against the edge of the desk, smiling. Her hair was a dark maroon, almost like a burgundy wine. She tossed her locks with a shake of her neck. “What do you think? I’ll wash it out again later and lighten it up.”
“Good idea. You look like something out of an eighties music video,” he laughed, thankful his muscles were still tight from his workout. Would she even notice? Or care? After grabbing his jeans off the end of the bed, he pulled a navy blue jersey from his pack and retreated to the bathroom. “Give me a minute.” He dressed, brushed his teeth and checked his blood sugar level. “Sorry to be a pain,” he said as he emerged from the bathroom, “but I need to have some breakfast.”
“Of course. I’ve been known to fancy a few bangers myself.”
They found a pancake house near the motel and made small talk while they ate. He learned that she grew up as an only child in a middle class family outside of London. Her father died while she was in high school and as soon as she went off to college her mother took up with an aging drummer in a marginally successful rock band. Eventually her mother sold the family house; most of the time she and the drummer were on tour anyway. “He was on okay bloke but it meant I really had no place—or even family—to come home to on holidays and such. Plus my mother burned through most of what dad left and I was deep in debt from college, just getting on with dead-end jobs. So when the job offer from the Consortium happened by, paying as well as it did, I reckoned why not take it.” Not to mention, she added, that her fiancé at the time had begun to think it acceptable to slap her around. “I moved out while he was on a business trip. I never said goodbye. And never looked back.”
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 13
