She shifted her weight and fingered the plain silver cross that hung around her neck. Her role within the diocese had grown in importance over the years as she took on more responsibility and gained more experience. Now, in fact, the bishop himself sometimes asked for her assistance, shared with her secrets of the bishopric, entrusted her to handle delicate matters in which Church officials could not be directly involved. But her primary job remained in the bank vault. Waiting. Endlessly, mind-numbingly. Bypassing opportunities at promotion and advancement. Now, finally, the day had come. And she couldn’t hear half of what was being said over the stupid alarm.
But what she could hear through the earbuds had been like angels singing. The contents of the box remained, safe in the vault.
Not that all the news had been good. The end of the parking lot conversation had been disturbing. The mention of the name Monsignor Marcotte had surprised Gabriella. But more than that, it had frightened her.
Amanda and Astarte sat wedged into the middle seat of the SUV, between Emanuela on the driver’s side next to Astarte and Roberto on Amanda’s side. Amanda sighed. At least their captors had the decency not to let the two ruffians—one now driving and the other navigating—rub thighs with them.
“Where are you taking us?” Amanda asked.
Emanuela turned. “Someplace where we can talk.” She, not Roberto, was clearly in charge. How odd, to see the sudden role reversal. Of course, the prior roles had only been an act. And how did Kaitlyn figure into all this?
Amanda wanted to keep her talking, to draw her out, to acquire information that might help them escape. “Will Monsignor Marcotte be there?”
Emanuela turned and glared, her former passivity replaced by a steely resolve. “This will go a lot better for you if you just shut up.”
Astarte, somehow, was not cowed. “That was pretty smart, how you passed the safe deposit box clue to me.” She smiled. “I couldn’t get that chant out of my head.”
Emanuela’s face softened. “I know. Me also. It haunted my sleep.” She raised an eyebrow. “And smart of you to figure out what it meant.”
“Why didn’t you just go open the box yourself?” Astarte asked.
The answer confirmed Amanda’s suspicions. “We didn’t have the key. We needed you to find it for us. The only information my father possessed was the number of the box.”
Astarte pushed on. “Then why give us the hopscotch clue to find the box? Why not just take the key from us and open the box yourself?”
Roberto answered. “We did not know the bank, or the name on the account. All we knew was that the key opened a safe deposit box. We believed that, if necessary, Cameron as a lawyer would have the best chance to get past the bank security measures to access the box.”
Amanda nodded. It made sense. As foreigners, probably carrying fake passports, they likely would want to avoid the U.S. judicial system. So why not let Cam do the leg work for them? “One more question,” she began—
“Enough.” Emanuela cut her off, straightening in her seat. “No more questions. Once we arrive at our destination, we will be the ones asking for answers.”
Gabriella Difonzo led the bank manager and a police officer to the back door of the bank. “This door. I was across the street buying flowers after work and I saw them come out of this door. The woman and her daughter. That’s when the alarm went off.”
The manager, Mr. Knotts, nodded. He was a bookish, dour man approaching retirement age who Gabriella guessed would prefer his routine at the bank to anything retirement might bring. “I’ll check the security camera footage.” He spoke in a funeral whisper, as if what had transpired at the bank could not be spoken about in normal tones.
Gabriella continued. “I knew they were up to something. I could feel it. But I am fairly certain they left the contents in the box.” She was well-regarded by the bank manager, who respected her devotion and competence. She gave him the name of the key holder. “I think his wife and daughter hid in the bank at closing time while he created a distraction at the teller window.”
The policeman turned to the manager. “Is anything missing?”
“I don’t know yet. We will need to do a complete inventory. Complete.”
“I’d like to check the vault room,” Gabriella said. “That’s where they were.” She tapped her chin with her forefinger. “And I wonder if this might be one of those rare cases where we drill a box. If it really is the same woman on the security camera, I would think the bank is justified.”
“I concur,” said Mr. Knotts. “Clearly a crime has been committed.”
Gabriella wished she could inspect the box alone, but the bank had certain protocols which needed to be followed. Otherwise she would have drilled box 2173 long ago, along with a dozen or so other boxes she suspected might house whatever it was the archbishop coveted. Fortunately, as clerk of the vault, it would fall on her to safeguard the box’s contents pending final disposition. After twenty-plus years of untarnished service, nobody would be looking over her shoulder, or even suspect her if an item or two were to go missing. Especially with God on her side.
They began to walk back to the front door. What was in the box? Whatever it was, it was important enough to cause first the diocese and now Thorne and his family to act in an obsessively secretive manner. She was almost certain, based on a quick conversation she had with the bank teller on duty and on what Thorne’s wife said in the parking lot, that Thorne had returned the contents of the box to their nest in the vault and created a fake treasure to lure away the man in the parking lot, leaving the wife and daughter hidden in the bank to retrieve the box’s contents after closing hours.
Fools. The vault door had a lock for a reason. And she had the key.
Brian banged on the motel bathroom door. “Come on. Get your ass out here.” He handed Cam satchel. “We’re going for a ride.”
“Where?” Cam felt a certain level of safety here, in a semi-public place. If they made too much noise, motel security would arrive. But the unknown terrified him.
Brian sneered. “Disneyland.” He turned to the two ruffians. “Make sure he doesn’t make a run for it.” And back to Cam. “Don’t do anything stupid. We have your wife and kid.”
Cam’s steadied himself against the doorframe. Shit. He had taken solace in the fact that, at least, Amanda and Astarte were safe. Either locked inside the bank or able to somehow slip out. How could he try to make a run for it, knowing it would likely endanger his family? “You’re lying. Bluffing.”
Brian’s gray eyes held his. “Why would I bluff? I’m already holding the winning hand.”
They exited the motel room to a poorly lit parking lot, Cam feeling a bit lightheaded from lack of food. As if things weren’t bad enough, he would need to eat soon or risk a diabetic episode. They piled back into the van, Cam between Brian and the thug wearing the boxing sweatshirt. Brian had clearly decided that further conversation in the motel room would be fruitless. Apparently they were on to stage two of his interrogation. Cam clenched his jaw, a wave of panic washing over him. His neck ached and his head pounded. Would they try to beat the truth out of him? And would they even believe him when he told them? The scroll is in the heating vent, but we can’t get to it until Tuesday when the bank reopens. How convenient. And how unbelievable. He imagined their possible destinations—an abandoned warehouse, a construction site, the woods. Someplace where his screams would not be heard. The ruffian to his right grinned and grunted, taking delight in Cam’s angst. Cam began to sweat, whether from nerves or low blood sugar he wasn’t sure. Probably both. He swallowed. He needed to do something. Soon.
“Brian, I’m feeling dizzy.”
“Shit. Your diabetes.”
“Yeah.”
Brian spoke to the driver. “Stop at the next gas station and get a Snickers bar.”
Cam had other ideas. He began to convulse, as though involuntarily. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”
“Fuck.” Brian reached to th
e ground for Cam’s satchel and yanked it open. Cam knew his concern had more to do with the treasure than with Cam’s health. “What do I do?” he said to Cam.
“Give me the insulin pen,” Cam replied, forcing his hand to shake.
Brian fumbled in the case, finally extracting the pen. Nestled inside the pen was a hypodermic needle used to deliver the insulin. Taking the pen from Brian with a quavering hand, Cam spun the dial to the maximum dosage, approximately five times a normal measure, and yanked off the cap. Spinning away from Brian, he gagged, pretending he was about to vomit. The sweatshirt-wearing ruffian to his right cringed, turning away. It was the opening Cam needed. Using a short, violent, backhanded motion, he jabbed the needle into the side of his exposed neck. The needle immediately penetrated, and Cam lifted himself in his seat, putting his weight behind the attack as his victim reached for Cam’s hands in a desperate attempt to wrestle him away.
It took only a few seconds for the pen to deliver the insulin. Cam hissed as the thug gasped, blood squirting from his thick neck. “The needle won’t kill you. But the insulin will. You’ve got twenty minutes to get an IV to raise your blood sugar.” The man looked back at him with wide eyes. Cam motioned toward the van’s door as the driver slowed in response to the commotion. “What are you waiting for? Go!”
The man ripped open the door and leapt from the car, one hand on his neck, his phone already in the other.
Brian didn’t hesitate. With a meaty fist, he threw a roundhouse left at Cam, catching him on the side of the head. Cam had unsnapped his seatbelt before his insulin attack, and with Brian off-balance due to the punch, he took the opportunity to vault himself over the back seat and into the cargo area of the van. There, he quickly found what he was looking for: Brian’s golf bag, presumably with the swagger sword still inside. Cam found the only shaft not attached to a golf club and slid it out of the bag just as Brian stood and faced him.
“Enough, Cam. Put it down.”
Cam pulled the sword out and held it menacingly, crouched at three-quarter height in the back of the van. “Fuck off, Brian.”
The van stopped, the black-clad driver shoving the transmission into park and racing around toward the rear of the vehicle. Cam leaned back and snapped the lock on the rear door. “What are you going to do, kill me?” Brian asked, sneering. “You don’t have the balls.”
The driver banged on the back window, prepared to break through. Cam only had a second or two to make his move. “And you don’t have the brains to know when you’re wrong.” He lunged, jabbing at Brian with the sword, driving his old friend back. The sword was ceremonial, but still featured a point and sharp edges. Slashing, Cam continued the attack, catching Brian on the shoulder. It was the opening he needed. Taking advantage of the van’s side door being left open when his first victim fled, Cam squeezed around the seat and jumped out. As Brian lunged to follow, Cam slammed the door on him. But the delay allowed the driver to circle the van and grab Cam’s arm as he turned to run. Cam ducked and spun, swinging his fist and burying it in the thug’s gut, doubling him over. For a split second Cam thought about driving the sword into the driver’s back, but chose instead to play his advantage and make a run for it.
Sprinting along the busy road as car horns blared, Cam leapt the guardrail and made for the woods beyond, sword still in hand. He had no idea where he was, but he was in good shape and should be able to outrun Brian and his hired hand. A gunshot rang out, thudding into a tree not far from Cam’s head. Cam’s heart thumped. That was close. “Stop, Thorne. That was a warning shot.” Something in the command, a cold calmness, told Cam to obey. He froze and turned to see Brian loping toward him, a semi-automatic rifle carried ominously at his side. Less than fifty feet away, his old friend lifted the weapon and fired nonchalantly again, this time kicking up dirt a few inches from Cam’s foot. “And so was that.” Brian stopped, dropped to one knee, and assumed a shooting position. “Run if you want, cowboy. But three strikes, you’re out. And give me back my fucking sword.”
This time they bound Cam’s wrists and ankles and threw him roughly into the back of the van, Brian guarding him at gunpoint while the ruffian in the black leather jacket drove. Cam managed to get into a sitting position and tried to track their progress. They crossed the river into what he knew was East Providence, but he didn’t know the area well enough to make a guess as to where they were headed. He cursed. He had almost escaped. Brian would not likely be careless enough to give him a second opportunity. And the punch to the gut, not to mention the needle to his buddy’s neck, would not likely engender any sympathy from the remaining thug once they reached their destination. A wave of nausea washed over Cam. He had been in fights before, but never actually tortured. His sore neck would soon be the least of his worries. He strained at his wrist ties but only succeeded in causing the plastic binds to cut into his skin.
The van pulled to a stop next to a hulking red brick building fronted by soaring Corinthian columns. Cam swallowed. Massive buildings held in noise well. Wherever they were, it was likely not good for him. He peered through some tree branches to read a sign: ‘Grand Masonic Lodge of Rhode Island.’ What the hell?
Brian opened the rear van door. “In we go.”
The driver grabbed Cam’s wrists and yanked him out. He shoved Cam up the concrete stairs, Cam nearly tripping a few times as his bound ankles struggled to make the climb. As they reached the top, a massive wooden door swung open to accept them. A tuxedoed man, tall and gray and gaunt, nodded gravely to them and silently spun, the motion causing his Masonic apron to billow like a sail. He carried a ceremonial sword, which he held in front of him like a knight ready to joust much as Brian had done at the Newport Tower less than two weeks earlier. Cam wondered if this sword would lead to clarity regarding some of the mysteries Brian’s sword had first exposed. Or perhaps it would be used more bluntly, to extract answers from Cam.
“Follow the old geezer,” Brian whispered, though perhaps not quietly enough so that their guide did not hear. He led them up a wide, dark wood staircase and stopped in front of a plain white door, where he rapped three times on a brass plate with the pommel of his sword, paused, then knocked twice more. An answering rap—four times in quick succession—greeted them, and their escort turned the knob to open the door.
Again, Cam wondered why they were here. Why a Masonic lodge, much less the Grand Lodge of the entire state? Of all the places Cam imagined the van stopping, this would have been low on the list. And of all the people he expected to see standing on the other side of the door to greet him, Monsignor Marcotte would not have been on the list at all.
“Hello Cameron.” The urbane priest nodded to the thug. “You may unbind him. And please wait outside.”
Freed from his constraints but not his confusion, Cam rubbed his wrists and took a deep breath. A Masonic lodge room made for an unlikely torture chamber. He scanned the soaring lodge room quickly, breathing in old leather and a hint of cigar smoke, not sure whether to be relieved to see his old friend Marcotte or angry at being deceived. And, it seemed, betrayed.
The anger won out. “What the fuck is going on?” He thought of Ruthie, dead in her condo. Of being attacked in Ireland. Of the cold fear he felt at Amanda and Astarte being in danger. He stepped forward, across the plush carpet, his voice low and strained. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“And I still am,” the urbane priest cooed. “But some things are more important even than friendships.”
“Bullshit. That’s what people say when they want to justify their own treachery.” He took another step forward. “You’ve been lying to me. Betraying me.”
Marcotte lifted a hand, well-groomed as always in a herringbone blazer and teal tie. “Please. Calm down. I can explain.”
Something about the teal tie enraged Cam. He, too, had worn a tie. A pair, actually. Plastic. One binding his ankles and another his wrists. And he, too, had worn something bound around his neck—the vice-like hands of a trained hitm
an, trying to squeeze the life out of him. He, at least, had survived. Unlike Ruthie. Barely able to focus through his rage, Cam lunged and grabbed the silk fabric, twisting. Using both arms, he spun the cleric around and shoved him violently against the wall next to the door. He brought his face close. “This better be good.” With a second shove, he exhaled, released the cleric, and stepped back.
Marcotte blinked and rubbed the back of his head. He straightened himself. “I suppose I had that coming.” He glanced at Brian, who had watched the encounter with a look of amused indifference, and closed the door to the lodge room. “Mr. Heenan, you may remain here with us.”
“You’re damn right I will. I’m not going anywhere.”
Cam took a deep breath. It was apparent that Brian and Marcotte were working together. But that was only a small part of the picture.
His heart pounded. His outburst had allowed him to vent some of his fury. But he was by no means placated. He glanced around, taking the scene in for the first time. The ‘us’ in question constituted himself, Marcotte, Brian and a middle-aged man wearing a top hat along with his tuxedo. But none of this made sense. Hadn’t he minutes before been held at gunpoint? And since Marcotte was working with Brian, did that mean Cam was still a captive?
The Swagger Sword Page 21