Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  “Fine,” she said, turning to look out the window. A few seconds passed. “And Dad, don’t think you fooled me. I know you didn’t answer my question.”

  The indoor softball field was laid out in an old warehouse covered with field turf. The thirty-foot ceilings turned the game partly into a racquetball match, with balls caroming around and girls trying to read angles. But in the climate-challenged northeast, a bastardized game was better than none at all.

  Cam and Amanda took seats in a balcony which had been built for spectators along the first-base side. A similar seating area sat above the third-base line as well, it being the custom that fans arranged themselves above their respective team’s bench areas, a handful of them with cellphones out to take video of the game. After ten minutes of warmups, Astarte strolled to the mound. As the first batter came to bat, she began her windup. Halfway through her delivery, a loud voice called out from the opposite balcony. “Illegal! Illegal pitch!” Apparently distracted by the jeering, Astarte’s pitch sailed high.

  All eyes—players, fans, coaches, umpire—turned toward the heckler. A slight man wearing a Red Sox hat and tinted glasses, he placed his hands on his hips in defiance. “Her back foot came off the ground. That’s a crow-hop. Illegal pitch.”

  Cam couldn’t help himself. First of all, he was wrong—she had, in fact, dragged her foot. And second, that’s what they had umpires for. “Dude, let the ump call the game.” The man glared at Cam, narrowed his eyes, and sat.

  As Astarte delivered her second pitch, the heckler jumped to his feet again. “Again! Illegal!” The pitch whistled across the outside corner as the batter, herself distracted, swung and missed.

  This time the umpire removed his mask. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop calling out like that.”

  The heckler leaned over the balcony railing. Middle-aged, he seemed to be alone. Or perhaps his wife simply refused to sit with him. “I will not,” he said, his pasty face reddening. “This is a publicly-owned facility, paid for by the taxpayers of this town. You can’t silence me. I can say what I want. It’s called the First Amendment.”

  The umpire, a college-aged kid, stared up at him and shrugged. He turned to Astarte’s coach. “You can complain to the management if you want.”

  Astarte stepped from the mound, her dark eyes now almost black with anger. “It’s okay. He doesn’t bother me. Let’s just play.”

  As she delivered her third pitch, the man catcalled again. “Crow hop, crow hop! She did it again!” By the time the last word had escaped his mouth, the pitch had zipped over for another strike.

  Cam glared at the man, fists clenched, not sure what to do. Amanda leaned in. “Relax, Cameron. Astarte’s handling it. That’s probably just his daughter batting and he wants to give her an advantage.”

  But it wasn’t just the first batter. The heckler continued all inning, razzing Astarte for her supposed illegal pitches. By the end of the inning, the other parents in the balcony stands had edged away, leaving him isolated along the railing. Fortunately for Astarte, she made quick work of the opposing teams, whipping an assortment of fastballs and risers past them.

  “There. At least that’s over,” Amanda exhaled as Astarte’s team jogged off the field. But it wasn’t. When Astarte came to bat, the third hitter of the inning, the heckler started in on her again. “Here she is. The cheater.” Astarte’s shoulders slumped and her almond-colored cheeks flushed even as she took a practice swing. “Has anyone checked her birth certificate? Is she even the right age? I bet she’s too old for this league…”

  “That’s it,” Cam said, standing. Before Amanda could stop him, he was jogging down the stairs to the field level. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he knew one thing: He wasn’t going to let some jerk badger his daughter. Crossing through the snack bar area to the other side of the field, he took the stairs two at a time to the opposite balcony, the heckler’s voice echoing off the facility ceiling.

  “Make the cheater pay. Strike her out!”

  Cam approached from behind. He could feel the eyes of the other parents on him. “Hey,” he said.

  The heckler turned. “Oh. Let me guess. The father of the cheater. You probably taught her everything she knows.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Your daughter is my problem.” The man took a step toward Cam. “Does she cheat in school, also?”

  Something about this didn’t seem right. Why all the hostility? And the man didn’t seem to fear Cam. It was almost like he was looking for a confrontation, middle-aged and wispy though he was. Cam took a deep breath. He probably should have just turned and walked away. But his parental instinct was strong, and the look of pain on Astarte’s face was fresh in his mind. “Look,” Cam said, “it’s youth sports. You need to tone it down.”

  “I’m not going to tone anything down.” He pointed his finger in Cam’s face. “Maybe you need to take your cheating daughter home and let the other kids play.” He leaned in and whispered, his stale breath assaulting Cam. “The American kids.”

  So that was it. Cam fought to contain his rage. The finger wagged an inch from Cam’s nose. Reflexively, Cam swatted the jerk’s hand away, as if slapping at a bug. As he did so, he noticed a half-smile form on the man’s face. Almost in slow motion, the heckler toppled over, landing splay-legged in the aisle between two rows of seats. Moaning, he called out, “My neck. My head. I can’t move.” As he closed his eyes, spittle pooling on his lower lip, a wave of dread washed over Cam.

  He had been played.

  Because she had taken the day off on Friday, it had been difficult for Katarina to break away from the office after her Monday morning conversation with Deidre. Generally, she tried to prioritize her time by spending it on things that were important rather than urgent. But sometimes urgency pounded on the door and insisted on being let in, even while important waited patiently to be heard.

  Now, finally, long after the sun had set, she was able to lace on her running shoes, make an escape from her office, and focus on what Deidre had told her about the salt water hydrogen technology. She didn’t even bother to go home first—she threw on a sweatshirt, tossed her phone and keys in a fanny pack, and stretched during the elevator ride to the lobby. A cold November wind hit her as she exited the high rise, a slap-in-the-face reminder that important should never be ignored.

  It was days like today where she resented her brother. They had founded the company together, each working like dogs the first few years—she the scientist and he the businessman. But now that Hildegard Scientific had gone public, Detlef had largely disappeared, focusing on politics and his think tank. She supported his causes—he, too, wanted to see Germans retake their rightful position as world leaders—but while she preferred a scalpel, he attacked things with a sledgehammer. It was fine to hit people over the head. But it was even better to make them think it was their idea when you did so. He was in town, in fact, for a demonstration later this week. Not that he had bothered to visit the office. She’d be lucky if he carved out time for a dinner with her.

  She started out fast, cutting down a block to Memorial Drive and heading east along the Charles River, the lights of Boston looming across the river to her right. She crossed the Science Museum Bridge, fought through the swarms of Bruins fans arriving at the arena which locals still referred to as the Boston Garden, and emerged where the Charles River met Boston Harbor at the base of Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. She checked the time for her first two miles: just over twelve minutes.

  Exhaling, she slowed her pace a bit. Okay. Mind now clear, it was time to think. She shook aside the thoughts of her brother and turned back to her conversation with Deidre. Following the Harborwalk path now, the ocean on her left, she continued south, through Christopher Columbus Park and past the Aquarium. The path passed behind the soaring Harbor Towers Condominium; for some reason her eyes were drawn upward, as if information about this mystery were contained within the very walls of the high-rise itself. S
haking the thought away, she instead turned and focused on the harbor. Millions of gallons of salt water, and the harbor was only a drop compared to the vast oceans covering the planet. If the Israelis really could harness salt water to produce energy, it would be the most significant technological breakthrough since, well, what? Electricity? The telephone? The combustible engine? The airplane? The computer chip? She shook her head. She had to hand it to the Jews. They were nothing if not resourceful.

  The surprising thing was that the technology was not particularly complicated. Shoot radio waves into salt water, then use the hydrogen as a fuel. The amazing thing was that nobody had perfected it before. But they had, she realized. Probably twice, and perhaps more. She had no way to prove it, but the scientist in her believed that the hydrogen technology of the Great Pyramid and the Ark of the Covenant had its roots in ancient Atlantis. Some historians theorized that alien visitors brought advanced technology to Egypt. But why attribute the technology to aliens when there was a race of advanced humans who could have invented it? Just as isolated jungle tribes lived a Stone-Age existence today, why couldn’t an ancient advanced culture have somehow evolved ten or fifteen thousand years ago? Nature loved the bell curve—an ancient advanced culture would be a perfect counterbalance to the primitive peoples living in the Amazon jungles today. One thing was clear: Atlantis, being an island settlement, would have had plenty of salt water. And Katarina had always wondered about Plato’s description of Atlantis, featuring a curious series of canals encircling and spider-webbing through the city—could they have been used to control water flow for conversion to hydrogen fuel?

  She crossed another bridge, this one linking the city to the South Boston Seaport, and followed the walking path behind the federal courthouse. Again the skyline twinkled, now on her left. For some reason her eyes, once more, were drawn to the looming pair of Harbor Towers condominium buildings. What was it about those towers?

  Paramedics came to the sports complex to tend to the heckler’s injuries. And police also. They ushered Cam into a small office off the lobby. One of the spectators had caught the entire incident on cellphone video. Everything, of course, except the ‘American kids’ comment made under the heckler’s breath. From the angle of the video, it was unclear where exactly Cam hit the man. Just that he swung his arm and the man went down.

  “You’re going to have to come with me, Mr. Thorne,” the policeman said after viewing the video. Other parents had come to Cam’s defense, but he knew the law: Words were never sufficient provocation for violence.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  The officer nodded. “I’m afraid so. Assault and battery. The victim is insisting on pressing charges. You have the right to remain silent…”

  At least they didn’t cuff him. But the arrest was the least of Cam’s problems. He could picture the headline: ‘Verbal sparring at youth softball game escalates to assault.’ The press loved this kind of story. Never mind that this had nothing really to do with youth sports. This was a setup. With a lawsuit certain to follow.

  Bruce’s phone rang as he and Shelby left the Skinner auction house offices in the Park Plaza hotel. Bruce had set up a private after-hours meeting with one of their fine arts experts, hoping for a quick lesson on the Dutch Masters.

  “It’s Gus,” he said. “Mind if I take it?”

  They were planning to walk to Chinatown for a late dinner. “Go ahead. I could use a visit to the ladies’ room,” Shelby replied, reversing course.

  “What do you want, Gus?”

  “I met your friend Cameron tonight.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  Gus chuckled. “He’s not my friend, either. In fact, you may read about us in tomorrow’s paper. I just spoke to a Herald reporter.” He sighed affectedly. “Youth sports can be such a powder keg.”

  Bruce wondered how Gus even knew about Cam. Hell, Bruce had barely spoken to Cam and hadn’t even met with him yet. Bruce’s brain played connect-the-dots, staccato-like: Gus follows Shelby—Shelby has lunch with Cam—Gus takes picture of Cam, runs it through Google image search—Gus learns Cam is expert in Templars—Gus hears on street that Just Judges is in play—Gus follows Cam—Cam takes flight to Belgium—Gus puts two and two together that Cam is working with Bruce. Shit.

  “Oh, and Bruce,” Gus continued. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to poison everything in your life, everything you touch. But there is one antidote. And you know what it is.”

  Bruce swallowed a curse and silently ended the call. Poison. A line from a novel popped into his head: There are poisons that blind you, and poisons that open your eyes. So, it could go either way, a fifty-fifty chance. Bruce bit his lip. He’d take those odds. They were better than he deserved.

  Amanda led Cam out of the police station to the car. Fortunately, the police officer on duty was a gentleman. He did what he had to do in booking Cam, but his gut told him—as did the other spectators—that Cam was far from guilty. She took Cam’s arm. “Astarte went home with a friend.”

  “How is she?”

  “On the surface, fine. But she’s a bit traumatized. I explained to her that this wasn’t what it seemed. The man was baiting you.”

  “So you agree this was a setup?”

  She nodded.

  “Maybe you should drive.” He sighed. “My head’s spinning.”

  They climbed in. “What I don’t know is why or who,” she said.

  “Me neither. But it wasn’t random. He was targeting Astarte.” Cam took a deep breath as she pulled out of the parking lot. “At first I thought it was something racial. But that was just to get my goat.”

  “You’ve never seen the guy?”

  “No. But according to the police report his name is Augustus Cavanaugh.”

  “Could it be related to our research?” Over the past decade, Cam and Amanda had made some enemies. Their research on the Templars, which called into question traditional Christian beliefs, offended many Christians.

  “Could be, I suppose.” Cam stared out the window. “But that’s not what this feels like. Why not heckle me during one of my lectures? Why go after Astarte?”

  Cam’s phone rang. He checked the number. “It’s Bruce Arrujo.”

  “Might as well take it,” she said. “We’re not going to be able to figure this out tonight.”

  Cam put the call on speaker. “I assume you want to hear more about what we learned in Ghent,” he said.

  “Actually, no. Your memo was great.” He paused. “I wanted to apologize for tonight. Gus Cavanaugh is an old friend of mine. An old friend with a grudge. The details aren’t important, but this is about me, not you.”

  Amanda’s anger flared. “Well, it’s Cameron’s name on the bloody police report.”

  Bruce exhaled. “We’ll make that go away. And I’ll pay for the legal fees. Shelby said she’d take the case if you want.”

  “Make it go away?” Amanda asked. “How?”

  “Well, it’s complicated, but the best way is to figure out this Just Judges mystery. So, even though I’m guessing you’re preoccupied with this Gus incident, I really think we should meet tomorrow to talk about this painting.”

  Cam shrugged. “It’s going to be an ugly day tomorrow, with all the press coverage. I guess at least that will keep my mind off of things.”

  After dinner in Chinatown on Monday evening, Bruce and Shelby walked along the waterfront for a half hour before heading back to their condo building. She kissed him greedily in the elevator. “I’ve missed you. Can you stay with me tonight?”

  He held up his injured hand. “I’m not the man I used to be.”

  “That’s not the part of you I’ve missed.”

  “Okay. Give me twenty minutes. I found a nice bottle of wine in Belgium. And I want to take a quick shower.”

  She nodded, swallowing an objection. This was another of his eccentricities she had come to accept: He never wanted to come to her bed unless he was clean. She kissed him again. “Don’t d
awdle.”

  He checked his voice messages as he undressed—Norman Plansky thanking him for the tax refund. “Also, I have a question for you. I need to get some artifacts tested. Carbon-dating, metallurgy, that kind of stuff. I think I told you about the burial ground at the resort. Do you have a lab you can recommend? I figured you come across this kind of stuff with the artwork sometimes.”

  Bruce considered the request before texting a quick response. I’ll call you tomorrow. I know a great lab—fast, good, cheap.

  He jumped into the shower, careful to keep his wound dry, and replayed the Gus conversation in his mind. He was looking forward to getting down the hall to Shelby’s apartment. But more important than that, he needed to figure out what to do about the growing problem of his childhood friend.

  Chapter 6

  Cam and Amanda had made plans to meet Bruce and Shelby for breakfast on Tuesday roughly halfway between Boston and Westford, in Concord at the historic Colonial Inn. Built in 1716, the inn housed munitions for the Battle of Concord and Lexington and later served as the residence of Henry David Thoreau. For a history buff like Cam, it was like Disney World. Or would have been, had his picture not been on page three of the Herald under the caption, “Heckler attacked by father at softball game.”

  Amanda, in what Cam guessed was an attempt to keep things light, mocked the clapboard inn’s age. “Three-hundred years old? Please.” She rolled her eyes. “You Americans. It’s just a baby.”

  Cam requested a table for four in a quiet corner, and a few minutes before eight Shelby and Bruce pushed through the front door of the low-ceilinged room. Bruce eschewed a handshake, explaining, “Sorry, I have a cold.”