“Are you sure you are not overstating things?”
There it was again—the implication that she was unstable. The incident with Alberto, blown out of proportion by a bunch of do-gooder academic types, had come back to bite her again. Somehow a simple lovers quarrel had been twisted into accusations she had an unhealthy fixation on Alberto, as if somehow she was the unstable one in their relationship. He had carried on a six-year affair with her, promising to leave his wife as soon as the children were older, only to instead take up with an archeology student less than half his age. What did they expect her to do, invite them over for tea? The man was a louse, without an ounce of honor or dignity.
She swallowed. “No, I do not believe I am. As you well know, there are certain aspects about Prince Henry’s expedition that are best not made public, matters that could sully his reputation forever.”
This kind of strategic planning was her strength. It had been a game with Alberto—tracking and tormenting him and his little tartlet on visits to restaurants and theatres and weekend trysts. On one occasion she phoned ahead to cancel their lodging reservations on a busy holiday weekend, forcing them to pass the night in his sedan. On another she snuck into Alberto’s office prior to an archeology lecture on the topic of ancient practices of ritual necrophilia. She slipped an image of Alberto and the tramp, in flagrante delicto, into the slide projection for mid-lecture display. It was the talk of campus for weeks; students began referring to Alberto as Dr. Death. Harmless shenanigans aside, she was perfectly within her rights to enter his campus flat and retrieve her computer. She could not be blamed for his failure to print out a hard copy of his almost-completed treatise and research notes—the computer was hers, as were the floppy disks he used to back up his work. There was no law against deleting files from one’s own computer or erasing one’s floppies.
“Beatrice, we are a long way away from that scenario. I am more concerned about the safety of Ms. Spencer and her companion. They are on the run, in danger. They may need this information to protect themselves.”
He was a businessman, not a historian. He did not understand that history needed to be finessed like a modern political campaign. Few Americans knew that Abraham Lincoln’s plan to free the American slaves included exiling all members of what he called the Negro race and resettling them outside United States border. Few Italians were aware that Christopher Columbus was probably Portuguese or Spanish. Few Argentines realized that Evita Peron used money she raised for the poor to fund her lavish lifestyle. History is not truth—it records not what occurred but what is remembered.
“With all respect, sir, I disagree. They are being advised by a monsignor who is well-versed in medieval religious history. Amanda has knowledge of all the sites in and around New England. By all appearances this Cameron Thorne is quite capable. And now they are aware of the bloodline connection. If you agree to her request, if you break the protocols and share more information with them … well, they could uncover secrets that are best left buried. We dare not risk endangering the legacy of Sir James and Prince Henry.” And ruining decades of hard work—her hard work.
Soon after the university strong-armed her into the psychiatric evaluation which yielded the ‘unhealthy fixation’ diagnosis, a distant cousin offered her a job with the Consortium. She was already a bit of an expert on the exploits of Prince Henry, being a direct descendent on her father’s side of Sir James Gunn, Prince Henry’s lieutenant and the warrior memorialized by the Knight effigy. The position offered a respite from university life and drama and an opportunity to research Prince Henry—a neglected figure who played a central role in medieval history—from the American side. She took a sabbatical and never returned. In fact, she would be in Westford today were it not for a follow-up psychiatric evaluation a year-and-a-half ago. A random headshrinker spent a couple of hours with her and concluded she had another ‘unhealthy fixation,’ this time with the Knight. The Consortium directors, aware of the Alberto episode, recalled her to London. The whole business was nonsense. What did they expect after more than two decades caring for the poor soul, alone and forgotten for centuries on the wrong side of the Atlantic? Of course she would take a personal interest in both his legacy and that of his lord. The truth was they were casting about for an excuse to put her out to pasture in favor of a younger girl who could bat her eyelashes and attract the attention of the simple-minded American news media.
“Wise counsel, Beatrice, much obliged. I will share it with the other directors.”
She said goodbye. But Babinaux had already dismissed her.
She strode to the kitchen. Orkney leapt to the counter and watched her expectantly. Someone was in Westford, digging for hard evidence of Prince Henry’s voyage while she was stuck an ocean away. The Consortium had for years contemplated archeological digs and excavations but had delayed and dawdled and vacillated. “What if we find nothing, or if the results are unfavorable?” one director asked. “Would that not undermine our cause?” Another argued that barristers never asked a question of a witness to which they do not already know the answer. “We should not dig until we know what we shall find,” he counseled. The position reminded her of the simpleton who refused to enter the water until he first learned how to swim. The Consortium had turned conservative, content with the status quo. Well, now, the decision was out of their hands. For better or worse, someone else was trying to dig.
She snatched a clear plastic pharmacy bottle, wrestled the cap open and poured the small red pills down the drain. Sir James and Prince Henry needed her, not some chemically-lobotomized shell of her former self.
* * *
Cam had purchased a sleeping bag for Amanda along with other supplies. They now continued south, following the back roads of New Hampshire.
“Really now,” Amanda began, “Mr. Babinaux claims the Vatican may have more to fear than just proof of the Jesus bloodline.”
“More?” Cam smiled. “What, did Jesus have two wives?”
She laughed. “I don’t know what Babinaux was getting at. He said to ring Beatrice tomorrow. Assuming he receives permission from the other council members, she will illuminate the dark corners of this business for us.”
He considered Babinaux’s statement, tried to imagine what they might have stumbled upon that could be even worse news for the Vatican. He gave up after a few seconds. He simply didn’t know enough about religion or Catholicism or medieval history.
“Speaking of tomorrow, what time is Eric Forsberg’s lecture?” he asked.
“Brandon said four o’clock.”
“You’ve been to these NEARA conferences before, right? Is it worth getting there early?”
“I reckon so. Most of the important sites in New England were uncovered by these NEARA folks. The Westford Knight and Boat Stone, the Tyngsboro Map Stone, the Spirit Pond Rune Stones, the Narragansett Rune Stone, America’s Stonehenge. I could natter on but you get the picture. While the mainstream archeologists are sitting in their offices examining their pottery shards, NEARA members are out in the woods actually finding things.”
Cam smiled. “Examining their pottery shards?”
“Honestly. We know there were Native Americans here before the Colonists and we know they made pottery. How many shards do we need? Massachusetts spent a fortune on a dig when they built the new commuter rail south of Boston. Guess what?” She opened her eyes wide. “Rhonda Blank and her crew uncovered arrowheads.” She shook her head. “God forbid these people should actually go out and discover something interesting.”
“Tell me how you really feel.”
She slumped back in her seat. “In any event, the NEARA folks are an interesting lot. As in any group, a few members have some rather unique ideas. Of course those are the folks who are most interesting.”
“Unique?”
“The pyramids were built by aliens, that type of thing.”
“Oh, that’s not bad. I thought you were going to tell me there were people who believe this whol
e Prince Henry legend.”
“I said unique,” she smirked. “I didn’t say they were lunatics.”
He kept waiting to find some flaw in this attractive, vivacious woman. But other than the rash, there was nothing. And that was as close to nothing as you could get. He thought about her sleeping bag comment again. At some point tonight there would be that awkward moment when they would either climb into one bag together, or resist doing so. Either way, he didn’t expect to get much sleep—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep with her resting only a foot or two away. And he definitely wouldn’t sleep with her sharing his bag. But the day was beginning to darken and no amount of apprehension could stop the sun from setting. “We only have an hour before dusk so we should probably find a campsite.”
He knew of a good mountain biking trail a couple of towns west of Westford that would not take them far out of their way and was accessible via an old logging road. The cops sometimes patrolled the area on the weekends and during the summer but they’d have no reason to check on it on a Tuesday night in September.
He found the trail and pitched the tent in the fading light while Amanda boiled water and pulled out a handful of pouches of freeze-dried food from his pack. “Let’s see. Your choices are chicken teriyaki, chicken teriyaki or … chicken teriyaki.”
“I’ll have the beef tenderloin.”
They sat on a log while they ate, their food spread on a blanket in front of them, thankful that the wind kept the mosquitoes away. After a few bites, Amanda stood and reseated herself on a large rock opposite him. “I feel like I’ve spent the last two days looking at your profile, sitting in that car. I fancied seeing you head-on for a change.”
“Phew. I thought it was because I hadn’t showered.”
“Actually, you showered this morning. Remember, I barged in on you in your towel. My only regret is that I didn’t have a dollar bill to tuck inside.”
“Wow, was that this morning? It feels like a month ago.”
“Do you realize we’ve only known each other for three days? We met Sunday and today is Tuesday.”
“Let’s see. Three days—that’s the acorn anniversary, right?” Smiling, he dropped to a knee, reached across and held out an acorn to her.
She accepted it gingerly, holding it to her heart with a theatrical flourish of her arms. “I’ll cherish it forever.”
The combination of standing to return to his log and her theatrics brought their faces to within inches of each other. Without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her lightly, his heart nearly exploding in his chest as her lips received his. He held the kiss a few seconds, her scent even more intoxicating than her smile. He pulled back only because he began to feel dizzy.
“Wow,” he breathed, dropping back to one knee.
“Can I have seconds, please?” she asked, her neck stretched toward him.
* * *
Salazar turned away as they kissed.
From his vantage point in a tree a hundred feet away, he could easily take them out with his assault rifle. Instead he slipped from his perch and hiked back to his car. They would have to come out of the woods in the morning the same way they went in. And he wasn’t going to kill them yet anyway—the map on the boulder in Tyngsboro was no doubt an important clue but he still had no idea where the treasure was buried. Following Cam and Amanda remained his best strategy for finding it.
He phoned Reichmann, reaching him as he was about to board a plane for Miami en route to Boston. Rosalita had left a message with details about a play she was going to be in. If the mission went well, perhaps Reichmann would reward him with a little extra vacation.
“Have you eliminated them yet, Senor Salazar?”
“No.” He was running out of excuses. At some point Reichmann would become suspicious. Then he would have all the vacation he wanted. “They left the church, then snuck back in. I assume you don’t want me to kill them there.”
A pause. “Very well. You have them under surveillance?”
“Yes.”
“Then tomorrow will do.”
Salazar reclined the front seat and closed his eyes, pleased with his decision to leave the woods. He didn’t care about the comfort factor. But it would have been in poor taste to sit in the tree and gawk.
* * *
Cam moved in again, this time steadying himself better, and kissed Amanda hungrily. She slid off the rock into his arms and together they slumped onto the blanket, their bodies grinding against each other.
This is exactly what was not supposed to happen.
He stopped kissing her and instead buried his head in her hair, pulling her close to him, their breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He needed her help, needed her as a partner to figure this all out and bring Brandon’s and Pegasus’s attackers to justice. What if their lovemaking was awkward or unfulfilling? How would they deal with it in the morning? It wasn’t like they could just say goodbye and be on their way. They were stuck with each other.
Summoning every ounce of willpower, he pulled his body away from hers, kissed her gently on the forehead and took her hands in his. He sat, pulled her up with him, stared deep into her wide green eyes. He began to speak, found his throat was constricted, smiled and tried again. “I’m really, really in trouble here. I think, in my entire life, there’s nothing I’d rather do more than just keep on kissing you but--”
She covered his mouth with her hand, gently. “Shush. You don’t need to say anything more. I can see it in your eyes.” She smiled. “Besides, I’m used to throwing myself at men and being rejected.”
“Yeah, right.”
She stood up. “We need chocolate.”
“Chocolate?”
“Yes. If we’re going to starve our libidos, we can at least indulge our appetites.” She frowned. “Unless it’s a problem with your diabetes.”
“No, chocolate’s fine. I just have to tweak my insulin.” He smiled ruefully. “Actually, diabetes is the least of my problems right now.” Standing, he adjusted his jeans and dug a couple of Snickers bars out of his pack. He sat down heavily on the blanket. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
As she tore open the wrapper, she nestled against him. “I’m actually hoping it doesn’t.”
CHAPTER 9
[Wednesday]
Somehow they made it through the night in separate sleeping bags, though Cam wake up hourly to peer across at Amanda’s sleeping form. Just before dawn he awoke for good and found her asleep, facing him, breathing softly, her fingers interlaced with his. He gently removed his hand, splashed some cold water over his face and began to prepare breakfast.
A few minutes later Amanda soundlessly approached and embraced him tightly. Cam handed her a cup of coffee and a bowl of trail mix.
“Hey, your rash is fading.”
They dropped to the blanket “A bit. Now I just look like I have horrid case of acne.”
“That’s what you get from eating all that chocolate.”
She blew into the cup. “I’d be happy to pass on it tonight.”
First they had to make it through the day. “I’ve been thinking about something. Monsignor Marcotte thinks the Vatican is worried we might find some kind of genealogy that will validate the whole Sarah as daughter of Jesus theory. But if that’s the buried treasure, why would McLovick have been looking so hard for it?”
She swirled her coffee, as if looking inside for answers. “Assuming the Monsignor is correct, I suppose the simple answer is that the Vatican might be mistaken. Marcotte said they feared we would discover a genealogy but I don’t reckon even they know for certain what is buried.” She paused. “And the other possibility is that McLovick planned to ransom the genealogy back to the Church.”
“Makes sense.” He stood up. “Either way, we’re not going to figure it out sitting in the woods. Once you’re done with breakfast, we should hit the road. I want to hear what this Eric Forsberg guy has to say.”
Amanda dumped her coffee on the ground. “I’m ready whe
n you are.”
* * *
Back in the Subaru, back on the road. This time heading to Fitchburg, an old mill town about 50 miles northwest of Boston out Route 2. It was Wednesday, the first day of the NEARA conference.
Cam watched as Amanda pulled down the visor mirror and worked to stuff her now-burgundy-colored hair under a baseball cap. “I attended their conference last year and I’ve likely escorted a number of the NEARA members to the Knight site.”
“You think they’ll recognize you?”
“Most folks seem to recall my hair. That and my accent.”
“Well, just don’t talk.”
“Really, I’m planning not to. And the rash might actually be a blessing.”
He glanced at a map and made a quick turn, still sticking to the back roads. “What exactly is it this NEARA group does?”
“The acronym stands for New England Antiquities Research Association. The members explore the woods, looking for rock formations and petroglyphs and cairns and stone chambers. They’re interested in anything that predates the Colonists.”
“I know a lot more about this than I did a few days ago. But I don’t really feel any closer to figuring out where this treasure—this genealogy, if that’s what it is—might be buried.” He grabbed the TracFone. “Which reminds me. I need to call Brandon, see what he’s learned and how he’s doing.”
Brandon answered on the first ring. “Hey, I don’t want to sound like your mother but you didn’t call yesterday.”
Cam blinked, a wave of guilt washing over him. “I didn’t?”
“No, shithead, you didn’t.”
Brandon was sitting in a hospital bed with nothing to do but seethe about his fate and wait for him to call in so he could feel a bit useful. He needed to keep that in mind. “Wow. Sorry about that. I tried once but we were out of range,” he fibbed. “Then I was getting chased through the woods.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah, fine.” Cam related their encounter with Monsignor Marcotte. “He thinks a radical faction of the Vatican is trying to keep us from digging around.”
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 18
