The Pilgrim Conspiracy

by Jeroen Windmeijer

  Tony was less than two metres away now. He stopped the boat.

  This can’t be how I die, Peter thought.

  Fay …

  He sank below the water’s surface several times. Out of sheer desperation, he swam over to the boat and grabbed the edge with one hand. He suddenly realised how cold he was. He looked up, almost imploring the heavens for help.

  Tony leaned forward and peered into the water, his hands on his hips, and a sardonic smile on his lips. ‘You can’t keep this up for long, Peter,’ he said. ‘I’m going to open up the throttle, and then you’ll have to let go.’

  The salty sea water stung Peter’s eyes.

  Tony leaned even closer.

  I’m so tired …

  His legs felt even heavier.

  They say that drowning is a horrible way to die, he thought suddenly.

  Fay, I so want to see you again.

  Agapé, I so want to see you grow up.

  Judith, I so want to hold you again.

  I want to see you all again.

  Peter felt hate and rage suddenly burning inside him in a way he had never felt before. For the first time in his life, he experienced what a powerful force these two emotions could be. Strength flowed back into his legs as if they were connected to an invisible source of energy.

  He let go of the boat as a still-smiling Tony watched him, leaning so far over that his head was almost touching the gunwale railing now. Peter started to kick his legs, just as he had done for countless hours during water polo matches and training sessions. He moved his body from left to right, and then, in a final burst of energy, propelled himself upwards. His entire torso rose up out of the water. In the same movement, he grabbed Tony’s ears and yanked his head downwards.

  Tony screamed out in pain and shock and tumbled over into the water. He resurfaced a metre away from the boat.

  Now, with the last dregs of his energy, Peter managed to hook one leg over the railing and pull himself on board. He dived towards the control panel to push the throttle lever down, but he missed and banged his head on the wheel. Dizzy with pain and fatigue, he sank to his knees.

  He heard a thud behind him. He turned around and saw Tony’s hand gripping the side of the boat.

  Still on his knees, Peter reached for the throttle. This time he managed to push it down. The boat shot forwards, and then the motor immediately cut out.

  Peter looked around him. The hand was gone.

  He turned the key in the ignition. The motor rattled and sputtered, but it didn’t come to life. He grabbed the lifebuoy. It was surprisingly heavy. Anxiously, he looked over the side of the boat, holding the buoy away from his body, ready to swing it. But he couldn’t see Tony.

  He walked around the tiny deck, constantly peering over the edge, but there was nothing there. Eventually, he sat down on the seat in the cockpit.

  What should I do? I can’t pull him back on board – even if he does resurface. And I can’t see him anywhere anyway. He’s murdered six people. That makes him a serial killer. But I’m no murderer …

  He threw the lifebuoy into the water. A nightmarish vision of Tony rising out of the water like a phoenix to pull him back overboard flashed through his mind. He tried to start the motor again. Mercifully, it roared back to life. He looked behind him but still saw nothing.

  ‘I’m an excellent swimmer,’ Tony had said.

  Peter pushed down on the throttle, and the boat catapulted forwards so suddenly that he almost fell over. He grabbed the wheel with both hands.

  Less than a minute had passed since Tony had gone overboard.

  How long can someone stay underwater?

  He pushed the lever down again, and the boat shot over the water.

  After a while, Peter lowered the speed until the boat came to a standstill. Then he got up, picked up Tony’s shoes with the socks still inside them and hurled them into the water, erasing all traces of him from the boat.

  He looked behind him yet again and watched the orange lifebuoy bobbing in the water like a funeral wreath on a watery grave.

  What now?

  Peter sat back down in the cockpit and opened up the throttle. He steered towards the coast, and then manoeuvred the boat in a wide arc to the right in the direction of what he hoped was Boston.

  No one knows that I was here. People saw us say goodbye to each other. There are CCTV images to prove it. They saw me get into a car. The driver has some sort of secret that he can’t risk having revealed, so he’ll be glad if he never hears from Tony again. If he finds out that Tony has disappeared, he won’t contact the police because then he’ll have to explain his role in all of this. And I’m leaving for the Netherlands tomorrow. Nobody needs to know anything. What can I actually do? Go to the police? They’ll arrest me. In America, you can be locked up for months before you get a chance to prove your innocence. It would be easy for a prosecutor to turn a jury against you. A foreigner goes on a boat trip with an American citizen, a member of the Mayflower 400 committee – he has a small stain on his character because of being kicked out of the Masons, perhaps, but that was a private matter. A model citizen, a patriot … Who would believe me over him?

  At last, the outlines of the city of Boston came into view in the far distance. But he couldn’t moor the boat in the marina. There would be security cameras everywhere, and he’d probably have to report to the harbour master first.

  Peter decided to head for the coast and find somewhere to put ashore.

  The closer he got, the more determined he became.

  He was going to kill me. For no reason. Because of something he thought I knew. What a sick mind … Playing God like that … Perhaps I played God too, but that was in self-defence. It was him or me …

  He piloted the boat carefully towards a small beach and stopped when he felt the soft sand chafing at the hull.

  There was a small cloth like a chamois leather lying on the dashboard. He used it to wipe down the steering wheel and throttle lever. Then he wet it and ran it along the entire length of the railing around the gunwale. When he was done, he picked up his backpack and shoes and carefully lowered himself onto the beach.

  He gave the boat a push to free it from the sand and allowed it to drift away. Peter realised that he was still holding the cloth in his hand. He dropped it into the water.

  If they found the boat, it would probably lead them directly to Tony – or it would if it really was registered in his name. And if his body was found, the police would almost certainly go looking for the killer within the Masonic community, since his departure had been so acrimonious. And, if the police turned up at Peter’s door, he could tell them truthfully that he and Tony had parted ways at the museum because Tony had some business to attend to in Plymouth.

  ‘No,’ he would say. ‘He didn’t tell me what that business was. I was surprised because I thought we’d agreed to go back to Boston together. Something seemed to come up unexpectedly, something urgent. I took the bus back to Boston. I got on at the terminus on Pilgrims Road. The bus was late, so the driver told me to hurry up and get on board. He didn’t check my ticket.’

  Peter took his shirt off and wrung it out onto the sand. Surprisingly little water came out of it. His clothes had already started to dry in the strong winds out at sea.

  He put his shirt back on, followed by his shoes and the socks that he had stuffed inside them before boarding the boat. He checked his backpack and made sure that his wallet and everything else was still inside. Suddenly feeling cold, he took out his anorak and pulled it on.

  Only someone observing him very closely would realise that his jeans were still quite wet. Anyone else would probably think that they were just a very dark colour.

  As if anyone would be paying attention to that …

  He took a moment to appreciate the pleasure of having dry socks on his feet and solid ground beneath them again.

  Then, the realisation struck him: I killed someone.

  No, I might have killed someone, he
corrected himself. Will I get away with it? Can I live with it?

  He trudged along the deserted beach, looking for the nearest road. He felt like the student, Raskolnikov, in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment as he descends the stairs after killing a despicable old moneylender. Raskolnikov appears to have got away with the perfect crime … Initially, he feels no remorse. But, eventually, his conscience starts to get the better of him.

  Peter laughed when he saw the name of the beach on a sign: EGYPT BEACH.

  The knowledge, the ancient secret knowledge, has disappeared beneath the ocean’s waves. In that respect, Tony has achieved his goal. But what about the document he was talking about? Where could that be?

  He left the beach and found himself on a street called Egypt Beach Road. Peter wasn’t exactly sure where he was. Or how he would get home. The best option was the one that avoided being seen by anyone as much as possible.

  Then again, how many people would remember a face that they had only seen once?

  He took a chance and turned right onto Hatherly Road. The roadside was thick with trees, and on his left was what looked like a wood, but soon the trees thinned out, and houses began to appear.

  He followed a completely random route and went into the first street he came across, turning left this time.

  About two hundred metres along the road, he came to a Catholic church. There was a large sign outside:

  CATHOLIC CHURCH

  Friends of St. Frances Xavier Cabrini

  Patron Saint of Immigrants

  As he stood outside and wondered which way he should go next, a truck pulled into the church parking lot.

  Peter realised that he must have looked helpless – or the car’s driver was a good Catholic who had been brought up to help those in need – because the car stopped. The driver’s side window opened with a soft whir.

  No point trying to run now.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Well,’ Peter said, ‘to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit lost. I’ve been to Egypt Beach. I got a ride in with friends this morning, but now I need to get back to Boston by public transportation.’

  ‘Public transportation?’

  The man, a friendly-looking fifty-something, gave Peter a look that suggested that he was on the verge of delivering a long rant about the state of American public transport.

  ‘At this hour, sir … Sir, it’s after five o’clock.’

  ‘I know. Is that going to be difficult?’

  ‘You know what? Why don’t you hop in? I’m going that way anyway. I can drop you off at JFK/UMass subway station.’

  Peter walked around the car.

  This man is definitely going to remember my face, Peter thought. But running away would look even more suspicious … By the time Tony is found – if Tony is found – I’ll be safely back in the Netherlands.

  Before he got into the car, he took a plastic bag out of his backpack and laid it carefully over the passenger seat.

  The man nodded approvingly.

  ‘Been swimming?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve still got my trunks on, and everything’s a bit wet.’ He recognised the name JFK/UMass. He had seen it often enough – it was one of the subway stations on the line he took from Harvard to South Station.

  ‘That’s the Red Line, right?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ the man agreed. ‘So you know your way around here. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At … Wait, let me think.’

  When he and Judith had gone on the whale-watching trip, they had passed some large hotels that looked out over the bay.

  The less this man knows, the better.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that I’ve stayed in so many hotels recently,’ Peter said. ‘Something Waterfront.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the Westin Boston Waterfront?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful hotel. Or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘It is,’ Peter replied. ‘This is so kind of you, by the way. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.’

  ‘We always try to help those in need, right?’

  They spent the rest of the journey in silence. Peter was too worn out to talk.

  Less than an hour later, the man dropped Peter off at the subway station.

  Peter thanked him heartily, grabbed the plastic bag from the seat and closed the car door. As he walked towards the subway entrance, he fished around in his bag for his cap. He pulled it down over his eyes before he opened the fare barrier with his ticket. The gates swung open with a beep. When he got to the platform, he leaned against a pillar to wait for the train to Harvard. He folded his ticket over a few times to make the thin card easier to tear in half.

  I won’t need this tomorrow, anyway. And for all I know, my ticket could tell them exactly when and where I got on and off the subway.

  When the train arrived, Peter put the two halves of the ticket into separate bins before he got into one of the carriages.

  So, there was a manuscript.

  And Tony had been dying to know where it was.

  Literally.

  Strangely, Peter was vaguely aware that he actually knew where he needed to look for it. What he didn’t know was how to bring that knowledge to the surface of his mind.

  If all that secret knowledge is lost, then Tony will still have won, and he’ll be able to claim his victory from beyond the grave. And then everyone – Coen, Yona and all the others – will have died for nothing. If I can find this manuscript, then I can save the knowledge that they devoted their lives to. And ultimately sacrificed them for.

  The puzzle pieces whirled around in his head like a hurricane. Then, as if someone had pressed a slow-motion button, they began to settle down. Soon, slowly but surely, they would all start to fall into place.

  Chapter 32

  Living books …

  Peter tried to process all the information that Tony had revealed to him.

  Can this really all be true, he wondered. Or was Tony crazy? Just a man with a very sick mind?

  After all, Tony’s belief that Peter had only come to America to unmask him was hardly rational. On the other hand, his tattoo was real, and his confession had seemed so … genuine.

  Peter always found it difficult to suspend his disbelief whenever a murderer in a book or film took the time to exhaustively explain his motives or brag about his other murders to his prospective victim. It was a well-known trick used by writers and directors to give their audiences crucial information. But now Peter realised that it did actually work like that. The killer confessed his crimes to his latest victim because he was confident that they would shortly take his secrets to their grave.

  So, these living books had been around for centuries – three thousand years, Tony had said – passing on some sort of secret knowledge. Tony hadn’t revealed what that knowledge actually was, but considering his repeated references to the Exodus, it had to be something to do with that. What was more … Christians believed that the Israelites had left Egypt around three thousand years ago, somewhere around 1400 or 1200 BCE. And the secret knowledge had been preserved within the community that would later come to be known as the Freemasons.

  There were three important places. Jerusalem – it always came back to Jerusalem – and England, and then, because of the Leiden Pilgrims, America. Six living books were now gone, and their knowledge would never be passed on. If what Tony had told him was true, Tony was the last living book.

  Or had been the last living book.

  But the knowledge still existed in a written document.

  Somewhere.

  I have to tell Rijsbergen about this. But not … not until I’ve left America. Rijsbergen isn’t likely to say: ‘Excellent work, my man. Nicely solved. Why don’t you come back to Leiden and we’ll discuss all the details here?’ As an upstanding officer of the law with a firm belief in due process, he would insist that I reported it to the Boston Police.

  But Peter
knew the police made mistakes – how many news stories had he read about suspects who’d spent decades on death row before being exonerated by DNA evidence?

  He would tell Rijsbergen everything when he got home. Then they could decide what steps they should take next, once he was safely back in Leiden and protected by Dutch law.

  To what extent could they prosecute me for this? Would it be seen as an act of self-defence? Or was leaving someone in the water two kilometres away from the coast a criminal act?

  In his defence, he could offer the fact that he had thrown the lifebuoy into the water. Everyone would understand his reluctance to haul Tony back up onto the boat when the man had been so determined to kill him.

  The subway car lurched and rattled from side to side, jerking Peter back to the here and now. He realised that he was only a couple of stops away from Harvard.

  When he got off the train, he tried to be as unobtrusive as he could. But he was sure that at any moment, he would hear a rough voice yell, ‘You’re under arrest. Put your hands where I can see them,’ followed by the famous words, ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.’

  Once he was back up at ground level, he realised that he was ravenously hungry. According to the station clock, it was almost 8 p.m.

  It had been well before noon when he’d eaten lunch with Tony at Plimoth Plantation, and it had been a light meal at that.

  It all seemed so incredibly long ago.

  It’s bizarre to think that Tony was already planning to get rid of me then, Peter thought. How sick do you have to be to spend an entire day with someone before you kill them, toying with them like a cat playing with a mouse?

  His jeans were no longer soaking wet, but they were still quite damp. He decided to leave his anorak on.

  It was already getting dark. He considered going back to Judith’s, but she wasn’t at home, and he didn’t want to be alone. He was almost afraid of his own thoughts.

  But above all, he was hungry.

  Peter set off along Massachusetts Avenue and headed for the Starbucks. He stopped at the Harvard Coop on the way. He had seen a book there a couple of days earlier, The Bible Unearthed, by the Israeli archaeologists Israel Finkelstein and Neil Asher Silberman. He knew that they had written extensively about the Israelites’ journey out of Egypt and the apparent total lack of archaeological evidence to support it. Everything that had happened recently seemed to point to the Exodus, including the texts that had been found on Coen’s body.