by David Wood
“Star of David?” Bones asked.
“Close. The Star of David was inspired by this symbol.”
“Maddock, we’re in a cave that might collapse at any time. How about you belay the suspense and just tell me what the hell it is?”
“It’s Solomon’s Seal.”
“As in King Solomon? Dude with a thousand smoking hot wives?”
“Not quite that many, but he did have a ton of them. I doubt all of them were hot.”
Bones shook his head. “Why do you always have to ruin things for me, Maddock?” He paused, scratched his chin. “So, what’s the connection between Black Caesar and King Solomon?”
“I don’t know, but this has to run deeper than a woman tracking down a pirate lair, and a conspiracy involving Solomon would fit the bill. She definitely wouldn’t want experienced treasure hunters on the trail.”
Bones’ eyes lit up. “You’re talking about King Solomon’s mines?”
“That’s what my gut tells me. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Nomi saw this carving. I think she hoped the journal would lead her to the mines. When that didn’t happen, she left, and tried to kill us just to be safe.”
A sharp crack rang out and Maddock danced sideways as a hunk of rock fell. It struck the floor where he’d stood moments before and shattered.
“What’s our play?” Bones asked. “We could try to clear the pool, but my hopes aren’t high.”
Maddock had a different idea. “I want to try something.” He took a few steps and paused when he felt the floor crack beneath his feet. Here goes nothing. He raised his foot and stamped down.
Crack!
Pain shot up his leg. For a moment, he’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing shoes. Brilliant, Maddock.
He took a step back, raised his foot, and repeated the action.
Crack!
And then the floor gave way beneath his feet. He felt himself falling, but Bones caught him from behind and hauled him back.
“I get what you’re doing,” Bones said, “but there’s no guarantee there’s water down there. Might be another cave.”
“Good point.” Cautiously, Maddock looked down into the hole he’d created. A few feet below the surface his light reflected off of dark water. This entire region was a honeycomb of underwater tunnels. He was gambling that they could find one that would lead them to safety.
“It’s a risk,” Bones said. “We get down there and find out it’s a dead end, we’re screwed.”
“Not necessarily. We’ll keep an eye on our air. Worst case, we come back here and try to dig our way out.”
Bones nodded. “It’s your brilliant idea. You go first.”
“Fine.”
They recovered their gear and suited up. Maddock wondered if they were doing the right thing. Possibly they would accomplish no more than waste precious air.
“Anytime, Maddock.”
Maddock was about to suggest they take one more look for a way out when the decision was taken out of his hands by a low rumble and the crack of the ceiling above them shattering. The place was coming down around them. Cursing inwardly, he plunged into the icy water.
The two men hit the water simultaneously and began to swim. All around them, chunks of stone fell through the water. One caught Maddock on the back of the head and he saw stars, but kept on swimming. The dark passageway curved to the left, looping back in the direction of the spring. But Maddock’s rising hope was quickly dashed as he rounded a corner and hit a dead end. This was it. They couldn’t keep going and couldn’t go back to the cave. He’d led them to their death.
Damn!
In frustration he punched the wall in front of him. The brittle limestone shattered, revealing a familiar-looking passageway up ahead. There was their guide rope! Eroded by the flow of water over time, the wall he’d struck had been wafer-thin. It was only due to dumb luck, but he’d saved them.
By the time they returned to the surface, their tanks were nearing empty. They paused to catch their breath, enjoying the fresh air and sunlight.
“Not bad,” Bones said. “Usually, I’m the one saving our asses by breaking stuff.”
“I learned from the best.” Maddock took a moment to reflect on the day’s events. They’d gone from a simple dive in search of the lair of an obscure pirate, to almost being killed. And if his guess was correct, they were now on the trail of one of the greatest treasures in history. He turned to Bones. “I know we’re supposed to be on vacation, but I’m in the mood for a treasure hunt. How about you?”
Bones smiled. “Glad to see you getting back to normal. I’d also like to see if we can find out who Nomi really is and who she works for.”
“I’ve got some ideas on both counts.”
“Works for me, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’ve got other plans.”
“Like what?”
“Like rewarding attractive young ladies for their patriotism.” He pointed off to their right, where the two young women they’d seen the previous day lay sunbathing. They’d traded their Confederate flag bikinis for the stars and stripes.
“That’s technically a violation of the flag code,” Maddock said with mock sincerity.
“I agree. They should take those suits off immediately.”
Maddock rolled his eyes. Some things never changed.
Chapter 8
Glastonbury Abbey
Isla found herself staring down a long, sloping stone passageway. Crumbling stonework lined the walls and ceiling. Dust covered the flagstone floor. The corridor was coated in enough cobwebs to decorate a haunted house. This place had been here for a long time.
She immediately noticed that there was something odd about the path that lay in front of her. The layer of dust was noticeably thinner in the center, as if someone had passed this way before. Not too long ago, but long enough that a new layer had begun to form. But why was it so uniform? Footsteps wouldn’t do that. It was as if something heavy had been dragged across the floor. Then she remembered what Agnes had said.
When he came home there was something different about him. Died in his sleep that very night.
She had visions of Charles Baxter, dying from whatever the Sword Bridge had done to him, dragging himself up the gentle slope toward the door. She’d had her doubts when Agnes had shared that particular story, but now she wasn’t so certain.
Intent on exercising caution, she dug into her drawstring bag and took out gloves and a dust mask. It was entirely possible that in an ancient tunnel like this one, Baxter had been exposed to some sort of deadly spores. No telling what kinds of mold grew down here. Next, she pocketed her flashlight and strapped on a headlamp. Best to have both hands free. Finally ready, she clambered into the passageway. She debated closing the door behind her, but if anyone followed her into the cellar, they’d see the boxes she’d moved and know exactly where she’d gone. No sense risking it locking behind her. She propped it open with one of the old boxes and descended into the darkness.
The passage leveled out and soon branched off in three directions. She took a moment to inspect them. Nothing seemed amiss about any of them—no obvious traps or pitfalls. The only obvious difference was the floor. The branch to the left had a dirt floor, the one straight ahead was of crumbling brick, the path to the right the same stone as that on which she stood.
It’s too easy, she thought. One’s natural inclination would be to stay on the flagstones and ignore these other two passages. But what was the clue Agnes had passed along?
Follow the stony path. The bridge is real; the lions are not.
“Charles Baxter, you’d better not have been lying,” she said to the darkness as she turned and followed the way to her right. She proceeded with caution, testing the ground with each step before putting her weight forward, looking for anything that might be a booby trap. After a few minutes of this, she allowed herself to relax. After all, Baxter hadn’t said anything to his wife about any traps. Or, if he had, Agnes hadn’t passed it along. She
hoped it was the former.
She turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with a lion. She let out a high-pitched yelp and sprang back, banging her head against the wall behind her. She held out her hands in a futile defensive gesture, but the lion didn’t move.
“It’s a statue, you eejit,” she scolded herself. “Baxter said it. The lions are not real.”
But it certainly looked real enough. The creature was sculpted in remarkable detail and painted to add to the realism. For some reason, it wasn’t covered in dust. As she looked around, she realized the same was true of the entire chamber in which she stood. Up ahead, she heard a whispering sound, like the rush of water, and felt a hint of a breeze.
She skirted the lion, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it might spring to life at any moment. On the other side an arched doorway led to a steep path that wound down to a dark crevasse. She descended the damp, slippery rocks with caution, not relishing the idea of a tumble through the darkness. A few meters from the bottom her footing slipped. Her feet shot out from under her and she hit the ground with a jarring thud. She half-rolled, half-slid, the rest of the way down, the beam of her headlamp playing crazily about.
Strobelike images flashed in front of her as she rolled, and then the dark chasm loomed before her, coming closer as she slid across the slick ground. She dug her fingers into the stone floor and felt the sharp stab of pain as fingernails tore free as she tried desperately to gain purchase on the slick surface. She dug in with her toes, braking her slide. She let out a cry that was half fear, half defiance, and skidded to a halt with her head hanging over the side of the ledge. The beam of her lamp pierced the darkness, its light dancing on the water far below.
“Oh my God, that was too close.” She took a moment to catch her breath before carefully scooting back away from the edge and regaining her feet. The cavern in which she stood was no more than twenty meters wide and about the same distance across. Filling most of that space was the deep defile into which she’d nearly fallen. Two bridges stood before her. The one to the left appeared to be hewn from the native stone in the shape of a massive lion in mid-leap. A narrow set of steps ran up its hind legs, along its back, over its head, and down to a ledge on the far side.
To her right lay a much less solid looking structure. It was a long, tapered, glassy-looking path. A groove ran down the center and its edges were razor sharp, like the blade of a sword.
“The Sword Bridge,” she whispered. “It’s real.”
Though it sparkled crystalline beneath the glow of her headlamp, it absolutely did not look like something she wanted to put her full weight on, much less try to walk across. Aside from the fact it was barely wide enough for her to walk on and coated in condensation, it was thin, much too thin to bear weight. The surface was cracked and pitted.
“I can’t possibly walk across that thing.”
She moved to the lion bridge. It appeared solid enough. But she couldn’t forget Baxter’s warning.
The bridge is real; the lions are not.
“Lions” plural. He wasn’t only speaking of the life-like statue that guarded the way and this was the only other lion she had seen. Was this a trick to trip up the unwary? Was the Sword Bridge sturdier than it looked? Would the lion crumble beneath her feet? Kneeling to inspect it, she immediately saw cracks like spider webs covering every inch of its surface. She knocked and was rewarded with a hollow echo. She grimaced. Despite outward appearances, this bridge was not solid. She imagined it would shatter within a few steps.
“The Sword Bridge it is.” Saying the words aloud did nothing to assuage her fears. The thing didn’t look sturdy. But it had supported Baxter’s weight, hadn’t it? Indiana Jones had faced something like this—a transparent bridge, invisible in his case. He’d concluded it was a leap of faith, and stepped out into the chasm.
“Screw that.” She took a rope out of her pack, secured one end to the largest boulder she could find, and tied the other end around her waist. It might just save her life if she should fall. Assuming, of course, the razor-sharp edge of the Sword Bridge didn’t slice it in two. “Such happy thoughts.”
As a last measure, she found a heavy stone and pushed it out on to the bridge. Everything held firm. Nothing shattered or even cracked.
“That thing doesn’t weigh as much as you,” she reminded herself. But what else could she do except give it a go and see what happened? She could turn back, she supposed. “No way. Maddock wouldn’t turn back.”
This time she felt no sadness at the thought of Maddock. Only anger. Here she was, standing in front of the Sword Bridge, something every bit as legendary as Nessie or the treasures of the Tuatha de Danaan, and she was thinking about a man. No more foolishness. It was time to move.
She took a step out onto the bridge and gingerly shifted her weight forward.
It held.
Another step, then a big step up and over the boulder she’d pushed out onto the bridge. That decision now seemed foolish as she overbalanced and fell forward with a scream. She landed flat on her stomach, the breath leaving her in a huff.
Up ahead, a dull popping sound, and then something whizzed through the air, zipping past her and vanishing into the darkness. Some sort of dart, if she didn’t miss her guess, and if she’d been standing, it would have struck her full-on.
“Found the booby trap,” she wheezed. She lay there until she managed to catch her breath, and then continued on. Discretion being the better part of valor, she continued to scoot forward on her belly, snakelike, in case there were more darts in the offing, but none came.
She reached the other side without incident, freed herself from her safety rope, and stood. To her left, the ledge came to a dead end, but to her right, a narrow cleft in the rock led into the darkness. She chose this path, hoping no more traps lay in her path.
She squeezed through the narrow passageway and came out in a tiny cave, barely larger than her first flat in New York City. The space was dominated by two massive stone coffins. Taking out her camera and her torch, she crept closer.
Agnes had warned her what to expect, but seeing it for herself sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. Two skeletons, each taller and broader of hip and shoulder, lay in silent repose. Their oversized eye sockets stared up at the ceiling. She began snapping photographs from every angle. She had no idea what she’d do with them. The Sisterhood wanted certain artifacts, but seemed not to care about any other aspect of history. Would her magazine print them? Would Nineve even permit her to share this part of the story, or would she insist that this mysterious tomb be kept a secret?
“What are you?” she whispered to the larger skeleton. “Alien? Nephilim? Anunnaki? You’re not King Arthur, that’s for bloody certain. No wonder the church wanted you hidden. You don’t fit the narrative.”
Satisfied she’d gotten more than enough photos, she put her camera away.
“Now, where did Baxter put that ring?”
There it was, around the fourth finger of the giant’s left hand. She slipped it off of the bony finger and held it up to the light. It was unremarkable, really. A simple golden signet ring featuring an engraved cross. No, not a cross; an Ankh—the Egyptian symbol for eternal life.
“I doubt the Lady of the Lake gave you to Launcelot, but you just might be Middle Eastern.” Smiling, she sealed the ring into a bag, put it in her backpack, and headed for the bridge.
“To hell with you, Dane Maddock,” she muttered. “I can solve ancient mysteries without you.”
Chapter 9
Key West, Florida
Maddock parked his 1975 Ford Bronco in front of Avery Halsey’s building and climbed out. He’d caught an early flight to Miami and driven the rest of the way to Key West. He was exhausted, and not just from travel, but hope buoyed his spirits. Maybe, just maybe, Avery would have something for him.
He took the stairs two at a time and headed to the only apartment with a maple leaf sticker adorning the window. Avery opened the door just as Maddock
raised his fist to knock. Her blue eyes peered out at him through the crack. “Got you again.”
“Why exactly do you find that so amusing?” Maddock asked as his sister swung the door wide to let him in.
“Because, whenever I do it, you get that annoyed look on your face. That, and I missed out on pestering you as a kid, so I’m making up for it now.”
Maddock chuckled and gave his sister a quick hug. Though they had the same father, Maddock had grown up in Florida, Avery in Nova Scotia. He had only learned of her existence a few years ago. Since then they’d developed a solid relationship, made awkward only by the fact that Avery had briefly joined the ranks of women who tried and failed to make an honest man of Bones.
Avery’s apartment was painted in bright tropical colors and boasted an open floor plan and lots of windows. After years in the great white north, she’d taken to the beach life and aesthetic with a vengeance. She did not, however, have the same commitment to neatness. Books and papers lay on every table and countertop, discarded clothing and shoes lay here and there, and there appeared to be no organizational system whatsoever to her collection of DVDs.
“You’ve got that disapproving look in your eyes, mister ex-military,” Avery said. “What can I say? I’m comfortable in clutter.”
“Is that what you call this?” Maddock cast a meaningful glance at a lacy bra hanging from a ficus tree.
“Oh, crap. Sorry.” Avery snatched the offending undergarment and hid it behind her back. “I had a friend over last night, and things got interesting.” Her fair features turned a delicate shade of crimson. “Didn’t have time to clean up before work, and I only got home a little while ago.”
“No judgment here,” Maddock said. “Last night, Bones talked me into bar-hopping in Panama City with a couple of girls who were barely old enough to drink.”
Avery quirked an eyebrow. “Finally on the rebound?”
“No, just humoring Bones.”
“So her bra didn’t end up dangling from a lampshade?”