The Templar Map

by K R Hill

  Ted smiled. “See.” He tapped Dalton’s leg. “You brought something for me. If I get to my ladies we’d be set. But I knew my homie would take care of me.”

  “I need you to cover my back. Remember that basement in San Pedro I told you about? Well, something about it has been bugging me ever since. I need to get in there and look. There’s something I’m not seeing. I just have this feeling that the Key is in there.”

  Ted reached between the seats and pulled aside the blanket. “That’s an M1 carbine. Where have you been hiding this beauty?”

  “There’s a bag under your seat that has a couple of banana clips in it. Each one of those—”

  “Each one holds thirty rounds. That’s a lot of persuading.”

  They sat silent as Dalton cruised north on the 405, heading to the 110 that would take them straight down into San Pedro and back to the basement.

  “You feel better now?” Dalton said.

  “I do. You know, I always want to be holding onto a little something with a trigger when I’m out and about with you, brother.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble. Every police department in the world has been through that basement. So have the Italians and the Israelis. But I’ll feel a lot better with you standing behind me with all that firepower.”

  “When this is all over and done, what do you think you and Jax are going to do? You gunna stop trying to save the world?”

  “We’ve been talking about that. She has a good job with the DA. Maybe I’ll continue being a PI.”

  “I wish you guys the best. Don’t get your fingers caught in the gears of this case. Don’t get caught in it.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Because I want to see your kids. Who else will teach them all the bad words for kindergarten?” He laughed.

  “You’d do that for me?”

  ***

  Dalton parked four blocks from the fountain house. After all the excitement of the FBI teams marching around with those big three letters in black and white on their backs and television crews staking out the house and talking to the neighbors about what had happened and what they had found, he knew the neighbors would be on edge and really careful about what was going on in their neighborhood. There wasn’t any other way to get at the house, other than to simply walk up to it. They went one at a time: just pulled the yellow police tape up and hurried through the back gate. The house looked completely different inside after the FBI, then the local police, had searched through every book and paper in the desks and drawers and left most of them on the floor.

  Dalton didn’t feel good about being there. Approaching every doorway, he eased up to it, his chest pressed to the wall. Before he entered the next room, he poked his head forward, took a quick glance, backed up, and took another look. Then he stepped forward, his pistol pointing the way.

  “What’s got you so spooked?” Ted asked.

  Dalton pressed his head against the wall looked up at the ceiling. It was covered with that rough acoustical coating that every contractor seemed to love in the 1970s. “I don’t know. Been dreaming about this place. Can you make it down the ladder?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Dalton climbed down into the basement and waited for Ted. He took the rifle from his friend and set it down, reached up and helped Ted step down into the darkness. He searched around for the light switch. Once he flipped it everything changed. Every drawer from the desk had been thrown into a different part of the room. Papers lay strewn about the floor, and the bulletin board stood in a corner, broken in half. Spray-paint graffiti decorated two of the walls with ugly orange.

  Ted pulled back the action on the M1 and pointed it in every direction that he looked. “Do whatever you have to do, but make it quick. I don’t like this place, either. There’s something I can feel reaching up at me.”

  “There’s something I’m not seeing. I know it’s here. A man like Devonshire is not going to take chances. He had a lot of time to find the perfect hiding place. He had money to make anything he wanted.” Dalton put his hand on his chin and walked slowly across the room.

  “The only things you’re going to find there are trash and rats.” Ted turned quickly and pointed the gun at an unexpected sound. The noise had come from upstairs. He jerked the weapon against his cheek and aimed at the trap door.

  “I remember how this room was, how it looked, before they tore it apart.” Dalton walked over and lifted the chair off the floor so that it stood on its legs. After a moment he tilted it back as he had the first time in the basement, and looked under the chair. The key box was gone. He looked up at the massive ironclad door that had once guarded the entrance into Devonshire’s warehouse. The door stood open, calling to him. Dalton turned a circle and remembered what he had told Nick: always look for what doesn’t fit.

  Footsteps sounded on the floorboards above. Dalton took out his weapon. Ted was already at the trap door with the M1 pressed against his cheek. He heard whispering and laughter.

  “I think it’s the graffiti artist back again. It’s got to be kids.”

  “All right,” said a young man in the room above. “I’ll go first.”

  He got half-way down the ladder before Ted shoved the rifle into his back and said, “You got no business here, boy.”

  The teenager shouted and shot up the ladder and was halfway across the room by the time Dalton looked at Ted. “That means we got about five minutes before a black-and-white shows up. I’m guessing that kid runs straight to his parents and tells them that somebody is in the basement of the fountain house.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  Dalton walked across the room to the ironclad door. He moved it on its hinges and listened to the creak. Then he flipped the light switch and looked inside the warehouse. The room was a jumble of furniture that had been toppled over and sliced open to make sure nothing was hidden inside the padding. Dalton pulled the door to close it, and that was when he saw two scratches in the paint.

  They could have been scratches from anything. Maybe workers had made them as they carried in the old tables, or the swords made in Damascus, or the steamer trunk that became a coffin. After all, they were just two scratches. That was when it hit him: two scratches, side by side.

  Dalton reached out to touch the scratches, then looked at the chair across the basement, and ran over to it. That was what had been bothering him for so long. On the front of the chair were ornamental brass decorations that stuck out on each leg. They corresponded to the exact same height as the scratches on the door. He picked up the chair and rushed across the basement and pushed it up against the metalclad door. The scratches lined up exactly to the brass decorations on the chair legs.

  “Why would anybody be propping the chair up against an open door?”

  “To hold it open. I do it all the time.”

  Dalton climbed on the chair and looked about the ceiling. “There’s nothing, nothing I can see. Why would a rich guy shove this chair against this door if there wasn’t a reason for it?” Before he’d even finished asking the question, Dalton turned and looked at the top of the door, the one section of the door that no one ever saw.

  “That’s it! Quick, give me a knife or a screwdriver. There’s a hidden compartment up here.”

  Chapter 21

  Ted kicked some things out of his way and moaned as he walked, poking about with his foot. “Okay, here you go, see if you can use this.”

  Dalton brushed off the top of the door and blew away the dust. He dug around with his fingers and pulled up a latch.

  Ted poked him with the rifle. “What’s up there? Is it Solomon’s Key? Are we rich?”

  “I don’t know.” Dalton dropped the screwdriver to the floor and jerked on the latch several times. A section of the door moved and pulled free. He reached inside and found something wrapped in cloth. He glanced at Ted as he unwrapped it and held it up to the light.

  “That’s it. Solomon’s Key. This is what everybod
y’s killing for. How many people have spent their life searching for this thing?” He climbed down off the chair and hurried across the basement. Then he realized that he was walking way too fast for his friend and hurried back and helped Ted up the ladder.

  “What are we gunna do with it?”

  “That’s not up to me. I’ll ask Mrs. Devonshire.”

  Once they got out of the basement, it took their eyes a few seconds to adjust to the bright light of the sun that was filtering in through the windows. The kids who had come to spray more graffiti on the walls were nowhere to be seen.

  Dalton was bending over and reaching down to grab the trap door when a floorboard creaked and he looked up. Just past Ted, a man stepped through the kitchen doorway and smiled. There was no mistaking who it was. It was the bald killer who had come into his office and executed two soldiers.

  Just seeing the killer sent Dalton into that special place that soldiers go, where there is no sound, where movement slows, where the brain shifts out of rational thinking and takes the person into survival mode.

  A split second later, Uri Dent showed why he was smiling. From his coat pocket he produced a hand grenade, reached over and pulled the pin, and tossed it across the floor as if he were bowling. There was no sticking around. As soon as he let go of that grenade, Uri jumped and ran back through the kitchen.

  “Grenade!” Dalton grabbed Ted by the arm and pushed him into the trap door. There was no time for protests. Ted, the former linebacker, jumped into that hole and disappeared from sight. Dalton dove in after him.

  He hit the ground, but it was soft. He realized that it was Ted that he’d landed on. That made him roll off to the side. He slipped in some papers, fell and hit his chin, jumped to his feet, grabbed his buddy, and pulled him to the warehouse.

  “I’m bleeding!” shouted Ted, holding his side as he ran through the basement.

  Dalton shoved him through the metal door and slammed it behind them, shoved his fingers into his ears. “Cover your—”

  Ted already knew what was going to happen and clasped his hands over his ears so the repercussion from the grenade would not blow out his eardrums.

  Then came the blast. Dalton felt it blow its way underneath the door and rush past his feet. “Are you all right?” He reached over and grabbed Ted’s arm.

  “You landed on top of me. I’m bleeding pretty bad.”

  Dalton saw blood flowing between his Ted’s fingers. “I have to get you to the hospital.”

  He pushed open the door and walked out toward the trap door. Smoke was pouring down into the basement from the house. Through the trap door he saw flames.

  “Were trapped,” he said, pointing.

  “Let’s go back in the warehouse. Let the house burn down, and then we walk away.”

  “No! The whole building is going to collapse on top of us. We got to get up that ladder. I’d rather burn than die down here.”

  “I’m with you. Give me a push.”

  Dalton helped Ted climb up the ladder, and when he was halfway up he put his shoulder against Ted’s ass and forced him up. He was sweating badly by the time they reached floor level. All Ted could do was flop out of the opening, onto his side.

  “I can’t go any further. I felt something tear in my gut.”

  “Bullshit. I ain’t going without you. Give me your arm.” He tried to pull Ted to his feet and choked on the smoke that was billowing around them. A painting burst into flames and fell to the floor. It dropped forward onto the back of a chair. The flames from the painting climbed up the back of the chair.

  “We can’t make it through the kitchen.” Dalton looked around and grabbed a lamp that was sitting on one of the tables, and yanked the cord from the outlet. He ran to the window and used the lamp like a fireman’s axe, smashing the window from its frame, up and down the sides, knocking pieces of glass out onto the patio. As an afterthought, he tore down curtains and threw them across the room.

  He ran back to Ted and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up. It was only eight feet to the window, and Dalton pulled him across the floor until they were in front of the opening.

  He lifted with his legs, holding Ted around his armpits, and tried to get him to his feet. But Ted was too heavy. During the lifting, Dalton ended up sitting on the window ledge with Ted in his lap.

  But that was the next best thing.

  He leaned back and pulled Ted with him, and together they fell right out the window, out of the house, away from the flames and the heat and the choking smoke; he landed on his back with Ted on top of him.

  “Oh, damn,” Ted coughed. He gasped for air as he climbed to his feet. “I can breathe again.”

  Dalton wrapped Ted’s arm around his shoulders, and together they walked out past the fountain and down the curved driveway to the sidewalk. They made it to the next house before Dalton looked over and saw that the neighbor’s house was also in flames.

  Ted moaned and grabbed his side and tried to hold the blood from spilling out. “Two houses burning? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Actually, it does. Those two houses were both owned by the Devonshire’s. I think that second house also had a basement. At least that’s what the guy at the county recorder said. It’s my guess that’s where Devonshire kept the records. I think that organization sent in Uri Dent to burn the loose ends.”

  “But records? The guy comes in with a hand grenade, and he’s gunna burn records?” Ted was trying to make sense of it, but he was in bad shape. Making an effort to walk, he almost fell to the ground.

  “You got to make it to the car, buddy.”

  “Who would send somebody to destroy records?”

  “You said it yourself. Remember when I told you about those blocks of cash? You said that much cash always means trouble. Well, that much cash means there had to be a major organization. Now it’s on the run. Word has gotten out that the boss is dead, and there could be a paper trail that leads straight back to the members of the organization. They’re covering their tracks.”

  Ted raised his head. “Dalton, what if Sophie Devonshire knew all along what her husband was doing?”

  Dalton repositioned his arms around Ted and continued walking. “Then she’s the one that sent the hand grenade. If that’s true, we’re screwed. You have to stop working those divorce cases.”

  Ted tried to laugh, but moaned. “I’m just saying.”

  “Just keep your mouth shut. Let me get you to the hospital.”

  “But we have the Key, right?”

  “Yeah, I have it.”

  “We found the thing, so we get final payment, right?”

  “Ted, shut up. You’re about to die. Stop worrying about money.”

  When they got to the car, they climbed inside and Dalton took Solomon’s Key out of his shirt and handed it to Ted. “Feel this thing.”

  “Whoa.” Ted moved away. “I ain’t touching that thing. You know how old that thing is? I mean, let’s get real. That stinking thing was around before Jesus walked. There must be all kinds of crazy bad mojo going on with it. No brother in his right mind wants to touch it. You take it.”

  Dalton drove up to the first stop sign and looked right and left. “Are you kidding me? It’s a piece of metal.” He set it on the floorboard, and started to accelerate away from the stop.

  But he’d noticed something. “Did you see that?” he asked, pointing to a parked car.

  Ted looked over his shoulder. “What, that guy in the car?”

  “That looked like Singh. What’s he doing up here?” Dalton made a U-turn and pulled up behind the car. The driver was slipping down in the driver’s seat, trying to hide.

  He tapped on the side window. Singh looked up and climbed back into a regular sitting position and rolled down the window.

  “Singh, what are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  The Indian did that funny head bob thing, reached to the passenger seat, and picked up a sawed-off shotgun.

  Dalton stepped out
of the way. “What are you doing?”

  Singh jerked the door handle and jumped to his feet.

  “Yes, I am following you. Do you not think an Indian man can’t be a private investigator too? You helped me before. Now I am here to help you.”

  Dalton grabbed the shotgun, flipped the lever, opened it up, and pulled two shells, one from each barrel, out of the weapon, and tossed them into Singh’s car. “You listen here; I don’t need your help.”

  Singh walked to Dalton’s car, looked inside, shrieked with a loud voice, reached in and picked up the Key.

  “My life is complete.” He danced in the street, holding Solomon’s Key, rubbing it as though he expected a genie to come out in a puff of smoke. “All my dreams have come true! All I wanted was to touch it and hold it and press it against my chest. Do you know what people would do to have this? Do you know how many people have died trying to find it, trying to protect it, trying to track it down? King Solomon himself held this in his hands.”

  Dalton grabbed it and climbed back inside his car. “Don’t be following me. You’re working with us, Mr. Singh. That means we tell each other what we’re doing. I’m going to need your help with this, so stay close to the office. And don’t mention to a single soul that I have this. If you do, people will die. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I understand. I am not a fool like that skinny man you run around with who has the red hair. I am an educated man. And you listen here. I am happy to be working with you, to find a place for the Key. It is an honor.”

  “Do you want me to shoot his foot?” asked Ted. “That would make me happy. I’ll shoot him and we’ll drive away. We’ll never have to listen to him scream or talk without shutting up.” He took out his automatic and slid back the action.

  “No, we can’t shoot him. Nick has dibs. Singh just gets on people’s nerves.” Dalton started the car and backed away.

  “If Nick was here, we could make Nick work with him. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about either one.”