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

by David S. Brody

  AERIAL VIEW OF AMERICA’S STONEHENGE SITE, NORTH SALEM, NEW HAMPSHIRE, USA (FROM GOOGLE EARTH)

  Beatrice glanced down. A large starburst-like pattern dominated the image, superimposed on a dark green background. The dark green was clearly the forest as seen from the sky, the starburst pattern likely the clear cuts that had been made in the forest to allow for the celestial alignments to be viewed. Thorne continued, smiling. “When we saw this, we were just blown away. The center of the starburst is the center of America’s Stonehenge. We think aliens must have seen the starburst from outer space and come down to investigate.”

  Aliens? Father Balducci and Reichmann both turned toward Beatrice. English was not their first language and they were not certain they heard correctly. “Did you say aliens? As in from another planet?” she asked.

  Thorne nodded. “Sure. Just look at the picture. And imagine it without the roads, as it must have looked centuries ago. Pretend you’re an alien. There you are, flying above the planet, and you see this vivid starburst pattern carved into the ground. Of course you’d come investigate.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Yarborough said as Father Balducci rolled his eyes and exhaled slowly, the color returning to his cheeks. She had heard similar daft theories before—that the pyramids were designed by extra-terrestrials as intergalactic signposts meant to be viewed from above by alien visitors.

  Thorne shrugged. “Look, you don’t have to believe us. But we believe Prince Henry’s secret is that he knew about the aliens, knew that they landed here. He and his men left with the aliens and went back to their planet with them. That’s why there’s no record of the expedition ever returning to Europe. And why nobody ever found Prince Henry’s grave.”

  Amanda jumped in. “Or his treasures. The aliens probably kept them.”

  Beatrice stared at Thorne. She was mistaken—apparently his Rex Deus blood had been diluted too far. Her thoughts turned to Orkney, the cat’s Siamese breeding pure and regal and untarnished. “The whole Rex Deus line,” he continued, “including King David and Jesus, is descended from aliens.” He faced Father Balducci, continued in his matter-of-fact tone. “The Vatican knows all about it, ask Father Balducci. The aliens come back every couple of centuries and check on their descendants.”

  Balducci shook his head derisively but Amanda plowed ahead, too dense to notice. “We think the starburst is some kind of portal to another universe, just like the Money Pit at Oak Island.” She pulled another document from her bag and dropped it on the table. “You can read about it here.”

  Beatrice ignored the girl and her paperwork and her loony assertions. She recalled an incident a year ago, an entry Amanda made in her log regarding aliens carving the Westford Knight. Perhaps the girl had convinced Thorne that ghosts and spirits were real as well. She ground her teeth. Why had she ever allowed the Consortium to transfer her out of Westford, to leave the Knight and Sir James in the hands of this simpleton?

  “I think we’ve heard quite enough.” She stood and turned to Reichmann. “Please ask your men to escort these two fools outside, with their ridiculous papers. We need to talk. In private.”

  * * *

  Cam swallowed a smile as Salazar stuffed their papers into Amanda’s messenger bag. Salazar and another thug pushed them out the door and sat them at a freshly-painted picnic table, the now-steady rain soaking them. The four guards surrounded them like points on a compass, their arms folded across their chests, one of the men flexing his biceps for her benefit and glaring at Cam. Salazar studied them also, his eyes curious and questioning in the way a zoo animal sometimes looked out at his visitors. Cam kept his fingers away from the cage.

  After a few minutes Reichmann, carrying a large black umbrella, marched to the picnic table and barked an order to his men in Spanish. Two cronies grabbed Cam, hoisting him off the bench. Salazar guided Amanda to her feet and handed her the messenger bag.

  Reichmann walked along the path toward the main rock formations of the site, deep in the woods, the ruffians pushing Cam and Amanda along behind him. The other park visitors had departed, probably because of the rain; they were now alone at the site. “Where are we going?” Cam asked.

  Reichmann ignored him, humming as he walked. He seemed happy even as his leather dress shoes became muddied. Maybe Yarborough had promised him the chance to try to extract more of the story from his prisoners. Or maybe even some time alone with Amanda.

  Grinding his teeth at the thought of Reichmann atop Amanda, Cam stopped abruptly. He couldn’t just let Reichmann march them deeper into the woods. One of the henchman gave him a sharp shove between the shoulder blades; Cam grunted and Reichmann turned at the sound. “I have something to say to Mrs. Yarborough and Father Balducci. Now.”

  Reichmann shrugged and motioned for the men to drag Cam along. Another shove, again jarring his injured shoulder. He took a deep breath and tried not to wince. “In seven minutes, if I don’t make a phone call, this story goes public.”

  Reichmann continued strolling but the humming stopped. “I’m not bluffing. Seven minutes. It’ll be on your head if this story gets out.” It wasn’t much of a threat but it was all he had.

  Amanda looked frightened, her arms encircling her body in a self-hug. Understandably so. They were alone in the woods with a group of sweating, muscle-bound thugs, two of whom were openly leering at her. The smell of the men’s sweat, the sound of their labored breathing as they marched, the sight of their shoulders and chests tight against their shirts, all combined to drive home the immediacy and gravity of their predicament. Cam wanted to put a protective arm around her but feared it would only serve to titillate their already-lecherous escorts. He settled for a reassuring smile. She offered a brave wink in response.

  They walked another few minutes, deeper into the woods, the rain ending but the air still thick with humidity. He studied Reichmann’s back, tried to will him to stop this march. Any rational person would cover his ass by checking with his superiors. But these people were zealots and sometimes, by definition, zealots behaved in ways that defied logic. Reichmann had already wasted more than half of Cam’s seven-minute countdown.

  After another dozen strides Reichmann finally stopped and sighed, his face glistening with sweat. Cam again tried to reassure Amanda with a smile. Reichmann pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket, edged away from the group and held a hushed conversation with, Cam guessed, Yarborough.

  “Give him his phone,” Reichmann barked at Salazar, no longer any music in his voice.

  Cam reached for Amanda’s hand; as he dialed, he whispered to her. “Our bikes are only a few hundred yards away. Think you can outrun them?”

  “Outrun them? I only have to outrun you.”

  Cam grinned. She had said the same thing back in Newport, less than a week and more than a lifetime ago. So much had changed. But not Amanda.

  Uncle Peter answered on the third ring. “Cameron? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, we’re fine. But if I don’t check in with you again in two hours, call Poulos and tell him we need help. Then call the press.”

  He hung up but kept the phone to his ear. Glancing toward Reichmann, he put his finger in one ear and called loudly into the phone. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Walking in a small circle, he removed the phone from his ear and examined it, pantomiming a man with poor cell connection. He edged a few yards away from Reichmann’s ruffians. Amanda sensed his plan, moved toward a large tree near him and leaned against it, feigning fatigue.

  They now had about a ten-yard head start. Reichmann’s men continued to eye them, Salazar especially, but it didn’t occur to them that Amanda—even with a head start—could outrun them. It was time. “Walk with me along the trail,” Cam whispered. “But as soon as they take a step toward us, run.”

  He offered one last pantomime, cursed loudly. “Damn. There’s too many trees around here.”

  He and Amanda gained another five yards before Reichmann’s voice rang through the woods. “That is far enough
, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Now!” Cam and Amanda broke into a sprint, tearing up the inclined trail deeper into the woods, their shoes digging deep into the soft, muddied ground. Reichmann immediately barked an order for his men to pursue, three of them charging up the trail, their fists pumping and their legs churning. Cam glanced over his shoulder. Salazar led the pack, his face serene and his stride strong.

  They reached the top of a ridge near the cluster of rock structures that formed the center of the America’s Stonehenge site. He called to Amanda, who was a few strides ahead of him still carrying the messenger bag. “Follow me.” He glanced over his shoulder again—Salazar had gained on them, the operative’s muscular legs well-suited to the muddy, uphill trail. The other two pursuers had fallen back.

  Cam veered to the left, off trail now, zig-zagging around the trees and forest debris. Here, in the thick growth, he and Amanda had the advantage—their smaller bodies could squeeze between narrow gaps and duck under low-lying branches. They would need a big lead in order to have time to mount their bikes and get up to speed.

  Amanda, displaying the balance and dexterity of a gymnast, darted through the woods like a rabbit, slowing only to turn so he could point her in the right direction. They were more than halfway to the bikes, perhaps a hundred yards away. Just as he began to scan for the creek where the bikes were hidden, a gunshot rang out, followed milliseconds later by the sound of tree bark splintering a few yards behind him. He instinctively changed course, yelled to Amanda to do the same.

  Amanda turned, her eyes a fiery mix of fear and anger, and darted to the left.

  His heart thumped in his ears, drowning out other sound. It was one thing to know, intellectually, that someone was trying to kill you. It was another thing entirely to hear the bullet explode into a tree near your head. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his body—an instinctive, ancient survival reaction. He crashed through the brush, oblivious to the branches and leaves and undergrowth, and sprinted toward the bikes. “Up there,” he shouted, “near the clearing.”

  Amanda adjusted her course slightly; Cam, crouching, tried to angle himself so that he was continuously shielded from Salazar by a tree. Salazar was shooting while running at full speed. Not a high percentage shot. Then again, these were trained operatives.

  As they approached the bikes he glanced over his shoulder again. Salazar was still in pursuit, maybe forty yards behind them. A fast runner could cover that distance in less than five seconds. Running uphill, through the woods, it might take Salazar eight or nine. Enough time for Cam to mount a bike and get to full speed. But not Amanda, who had little experience on a mountain bike and was burdened by the messenger bag. Salazar would chase her down. He made a split-second decision.

  “Grab your bike and ride up the trail. I’ll be right behind you.” She turned, doubt in her eyes. “Trust me, Amanda.”

  He ducked behind a massive oak tree, finding a thick branch in the wet brush. Pressing his back against the tree, he snapped off the smaller limbs to make a club. Salazar crashed through the woods. Cam glanced up to see Amanda mounting her bike, wishing he could magically propel her along to safety. He lifted the oak club high, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. His body frozen, he waited—if he moved too quickly he would expose himself. He only had one shot at this.

  Time slowed as he focused all his senses on the movements of his pursuer. Salazar would cross a pile of brush—moistened by the rain but likely dry underneath—about ten feet from his hiding spot. Ten feet, three strides. There. The crunch of shoe on twigs. Then the thump of a second stride. And finally the thud of a third impact. Now! He pivoted to his left, stepped away from the tree and swung the club like a baseball bat, his target a chest-high fastball.

  He timed it perfectly. The blow struck Salazar across the chest before he had a chance to raise his arms to deflect the attack, the club recoiling from the impact. Salazar pinwheeled in the air, his feet continuing forward, his upper body propelled back by the force of the blow, his arms and leg flailing around him. He spun in almost a complete backward somersault, finally landing face down with a dull thud.

  Cam raced over, kicked the gun from Salazar’s hand and stuffed it into his waistband. As Salazar tried to push himself to his hands and knees and the other operatives crashed through the woods in pursuit, Cam sprinted for his bike.

  The blow felt good, revenge for Brandon and Pegasus, for Eric Forsberg and Monsignor Marcotte. Salazar had shown him some kindness. But not nearly enough to offset his crimes.

  * * *

  Amanda peddled hard through the subdivision and out to the main road, her eyes glued to Cam’s back, her ears attuned to the early sounds of a vehicle in pursuit. He glanced down once in a while at his map; after about ten minutes he coasted to a stop and smiled at her.

  “Shouldn’t we continue?” Reichmann and his men could be just around the corner. She gulped air.

  “No need,” he grinned. “We got away.”

  “Are you certain?” She looked around. “Wasn’t that too easy?”

  “Exactly. The whole thing was too easy. They wanted us to escape.”

  “Pardon? Salazar looked bloody serious to me. Really, bullets and all?”

  “Well, maybe he was off-script a bit. But the plan was to let us get away.”

  “Cameron, I’m not following you.”

  “Sorry. They believed our alien theory. Or, more accurately, believed that we believe it.”

  “Yes. That part I understand.” Yarborough had suspected Amanda believed in aliens ever since the silly log entry. That was the plan—that Yarborough would convince Reichmann and Balducci to let them escape hoping they would go public with the alien story and discredit themselves. The strategy played perfectly into Yarborough’s perception of herself as sneaky and cunning—as Napoleon once famously said, never interrupt your enemy when he’s making a mistake. Yarborough must have reasoned that if word got out that Vatican affiliates were fighting to suppress the Prince Henry story—going so far as to murder both innocent civilians and Catholic priests—then the story must have real legs. In other words, why would the Vatican allies react so violently if the story was nothing more than another in the seemingly endless string of Templar myths bouncing around the internet? The more cunning strategy would be to let Cam and her publicize the story—personally and in all its resplendent absurdity—and have their conclusions sink under the weight of their wacky alien portal assertions. Never mind that 90% of their conclusions were valid—they would drown in the sensationalized alien headlines. “But what about the gunshots?”

  “They had to make it look good so we wouldn’t be suspicious.”

  It made sense. “Did you know this would happen from the beginning?”

  He shook his head. “No, I thought they’d let us go when we threatened that the story would go public. They had me a little scared there for a few minutes. But then I remembered how Yarborough made sure we took our papers and photos with us before they dragged us out of the conference room. She tried to be subtle about it but why else would she want us to have them?”

  “I see. She wanted to be certain we had pictures to provide to the press.”

  “Right. Once I realized that, I was pretty confident they would let us escape.” He grimaced. “Though, again, I wasn’t sure Salazar was going along with the plan. I think he might have had other ideas. The other guys were chasing us but he was flying—even with the head start they gave us, which I think they did on purpose, he almost caught us. So I started thinking maybe his plan was to just let one of us escape.”

  She grinned. “Just have to outrun the bear.”

  He leaned in, kissed her. “Well, I got away from the bear. So you’re stuck with me for a while longer.”

  They stood together for a few seconds sipping some water, her head on his shoulder. “Really,” she said, “I nearly started laughing in the conference room when you suggested that Yarborough pretend she’s an alien.”

  “Actually,
what I said was, ‘Pretend you’re an alien flying above the planet.’ In my mind, I was picturing the Wicked Witch on her broom.”

  Amusing image, but the reality was more sobering. “Unfortunately the witch is not yet dead. We’re free but what did we really gain?”

  They remounted their bikes and rode at a leisurely pace, Cam riding no-handed. “A few days. They’re expecting us to go to the press with the story, aliens and all. But they know it can’t happen overnight. That’ll give us time to get Brandon the proper protection, time to finish up our research, time to get the story out to the press in some kind of logical format. Without the aliens, of course.”

  She licked the sweat from her lips, tasted the mud she had spread on her face earlier in the day. “There better be time for a hot shower in there somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 15

  [Friday evening]

  After pedaling away from America’s Stonehenge, Cam and Amanda followed the back roads into Massachusetts to the commuter rail station in Lawrence. They caught a train south to Boston’s North Station then boarded another train heading north up the coastline to Salem, Massachusetts, losing themselves in the Friday evening rush hour. They had escaped but there was no guarantee they weren’t still being followed.

  “First Salem, New Hampshire, now Salem, Massachusetts,” Amanda observed, raising her voice over the screeching of the train’s wheels on the tracks.

  “It’s this Sacred Feminine thing. I’m hooked.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Seriously, I think there’s more to this mystery than just the America’s Stonehenge site. That’s part of it, and I still think the chess piece thing has some validity but we’re missing something. Agreed?”

  “Yes. There are a number of clues that have nothing to do with America’s Stonehenge. Including this clay lantern we’ve been carrying around.”

  “Putting aside the lantern, there’s been this bell ringing in the back of my head ever since you said that somehow Prince Henry convinced the Indians to share the America’s Stonehenge secret with him. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I was telling Yarborough that the Salem name is derived from Venus. Then it clicked. I did my senior thesis in college on the Salem witch trials so I read a lot about Judge Samuel Sewall, who presided over the trials. He used to talk about forming a ‘New Jerusalem’ here in America. And his big thing was that the Native Americans were essential to its formation.”