The Swagger Sword

by David S. Brody

  “Okay,” he said after a few seconds of consideration. “Put it down, roll it toward me, and then back up.” Amanda did as instructed, though the tube got caught on some slush halfway. When she had retreated, Brian pushed Astarte forward, his body still against hers, the gun still raised. “Bend over slowly and pick it up,” he commanded, removing his left hand from her mouth and using it to grab the straps of her backpack. She did as told, clutching the tube as he yanked her by her pack with him back to the van. “Now. Give it to me.”

  Behind her ear she could hear him breathing in, sniffing the parchment. He grunted in approval, skooched himself and Astarte over a few feet, and slid open the rear door of the van. Astarte couldn’t see behind her, but she felt his body turn and imagined him reaching back to place the clay tube on the back seat. Closing the van door, he pulled Astarte back against him once again. Fumbling with her straps, he breathed into her ear. “You’re almost safe. Listen carefully. I’m going to count to three. At three, run away as fast as you can.” His voice again seemed to crack. “And tell your dad that, for once in my life, I tried to do the right thing.”

  Franz Pfyffer sat on a tree branch at the edge of the parking lot, an HK417 battle rifle slung over his shoulder, watching Thorne and his wife trade the clay tube—apparently the real scroll actually did exist, as Franz suspected—for their daughter. Good. There was no reason for the little lamb to be hurt.

  But the ancient scroll was becoming more than a nuisance. His gut had told him this wasn’t over, that Thorne had not given up on finding his treasure. So Franz had freed him, then tracked him. A simple plan to end a mission which had been fraught with a series of unfortunate developments. He peered through his scope. The propane storage tank by the maintenance garage was the first lucky break his team had caught. Or, just as likely, a piece of divine intervention. As the ugly American with the green pants, Heenan, pushed the girl away and turned back to his van, Franz steadied his weapon. At one point Franz feared Heenan had spotted him when the sun broke through the clouds and reflected off his binocular lens. But apparently he was so caught up in the moment that the incident had not registered. Amateur. Small details mattered.

  The girl ran. Franz waited until she reached the edge of the woods, steadied his breathing as she and her parents raced away from Heenan and his assault rifle. This would soon be over. All clear, a voice in his head announced. With a steady hand Franz fired a pair of shots at the propane storage tank. The first 51-millimeter round easily penetrated the metal shell, rupturing it. The second ricocheted off an adjacent steel support beam, creating the intended spark. The highly flammable propane gas erupted immediately, the ball of flame visible to Franz microseconds before the sound of the explosion echoed back to him. The flames roared out to engulf the nearby van, the American’s body frozen in place, his face silhouetted in the front seat, one green-panted leg still extended out the front door. Within a few seconds the van’s gas tank itself conflagrated, the second explosion punctuating the first.

  Like a gymnast, Franz swung himself from his branch to a lower one, then soundlessly dropped to the snow-covered ground. Job done. The clay tube might survive a fire, but not an explosion. And, of course, the ancient scroll was no match for either one. Just as people like Thorne and Monsignor Marcotte and Brian Heenan and Emanuela Orlandi were no match for those who did God’s work here on earth.

  Cam had set the alarm early, glad he had limited himself to a single glass of wine to celebrate New Year’s Eve. He was looking forward to a brisk winter jog before heading to New Hampshire for a family ski day. It was a New Year’s Day tradition for them—getting a few runs in on the groomed trails before the rest of the world rolled out of bed. And, after everything that had just happened, he felt they needed normalcy more than anything else. But first he pulled Venus to him, content to let his mind wander for a few minutes, reliving the previous day’s adventure as the dog licked his hand.

  After circling around to leave the woods from the far side of the parking lot, thereby avoiding being questioned by the Cumberland police, Cam, Amanda and Astarte had returned to Westford in time for Astarte to invite a few friends over for pizza. She was understandably shaken by the day’s events, and Cam and Amanda wanted to keep her close by, so hosting seemed like a good compromise. After dinner, Astarte and her friends had taken advantage of the temperate weather and headed out to the lake for ice skating and a bonfire. Raja and a few others had joined them, Astarte intent on trying to teach him to skate, though Amanda commented that it seemed he clung to her for support more than perhaps was necessary. Cam was happy for her, proud of the mature young woman she had grown into. And admiring of her resiliency. From hostage to pizza party, barely missing a beat. He had read once that some people survived calamity, while others, like Astarte, seemed to grow from it, as if strengthened by the heat of its fire.

  Not that the weekend could be called a success. They had been so close to saving the ancient scroll, so close to forcing the Western world to rethink the role of women in society. And then, in the flash of a fire ball, it was gone. As was Brian. Cam had not mourned the loss of the man Brian had become, but he did grieve for his boyhood friend, for the youth whose innocence had been jerked away far too young. Astarte had repeated Brian’s final words, about telling Cam that he had finally tried to do the right thing. It hadn’t really made sense to Cam. Brian had stolen a priceless artifact from his childhood best friend while taking that friend’s daughter hostage at gunpoint. The right thing? Perhaps in Brian’s dark world the act of not killing an innocent girl qualified as a noble, selfless act.

  Gone, too, were Emanuela and Roberto, apparently at the hands of the Vatican extremists. Marcotte had called with the news last night. “I don’t think you’re in any danger,” the priest had said. “Major Pfyffer had a clear shot at you in the parking lot if he wanted to take it. But now that the ketubah has been destroyed, the danger is over in their mind.” Cam felt a pang of sadness for Emanuela and Roberto; she would never have her revenge, and, more importantly, they would never have the chance to find happiness together. What a waste.

  Cam swung his legs out of bed, washed up, and ate an apple and frozen waffle. After stretching and kissing a sleeping Amanda goodbye, he bundled up and put Venus on a leash. A cold wind greeted him in the gray morning light, taking his breath away but also clearing his head. Astarte had said something else about Brian, that he had told her to run away as quickly as she could. Why? Did he know what was about to happen and wanted her far from the explosion? That made no sense—how could he have known? Monsignor Marcotte had filled in some of the blanks: Major Pfyffer and his team had captured Marcotte from Cam’s car in the parking lot and forced him into revealing that Cam and Amanda were in the process of retrieving the ancient scroll. Pfyffer had, in turn, taken the opportunity to eliminate both Brian and the scroll with a pair of shots, thereby successfully completing his mission.

  Cam shook his head. None of that explained how Brian may have foreseen the propane explosion or why he told Astarte to run. Perhaps Marcotte was holding information back, as he was wont to do. But something still didn’t add up. Cam feared that at this point it never would.

  Cam showered quickly before sending Venus in to wake Astarte. “Lick her face until she gets out of bed, girl.” Giggles cascaded down the stairs from her room a few seconds later.

  “I’m making sandwiches,” Cam announced. There was no reason to spend fifty bucks on lunch in addition to the pricey lift tickets. They hadn’t had time to go to the supermarket since returning, so he pulled out jars of peanut butter and jelly and found frozen wheat bread in the freezer, which he put in the toaster. Astarte had left her backpack hanging on a peg by the front door yesterday afternoon, so Cam grabbed it, pulled the folding shovel out, and brought the pack into the kitchen. While the bread toasted, he knelt in front of the refrigerator and slid a couple of cans of seltzer water into the main pocket, the first can tinging against something at the bottom of the
pack. Still crouched, Cam reached around the can, his hand closing on a cold cylinder of some kind.

  He froze. No. Way.

  A few seconds passed, Cam’s arm still in the backpack as if tethered there. It was as if he couldn’t withdraw it until his brain had made sense of it all. He blinked as Amanda wandered into the kitchen, her hair wet from the shower. “Um,” he gulped, “so I don’t think we’re going skiing.”

  Amanda stared at the ancient scroll, unfolded on her kitchen table like the Sunday newspaper. She covered her mouth, afraid even to breathe on it. “Bloody amazing. It’s the real deal, Cam.”

  “Well,” he smiled from across the table, “I think we’ll need to get it tested.”

  “I know. But it’s parchment, and it matches the later copy the monks made. Or the monks’ copy matches this, I should say. If it’s not the actual ketubah, it’s an ancient production.”

  Cam nodded. “And why would anyone in ancient times fabricate a marriage contract between Jesus and Mary Magdalene?”

  “Only reason I can think of is they had a death wish.” She sighed. “Something like this could get you burned at the stake pretty quick.”

  Astarte stood nearby, sipping her coffee, not wanting to get too close with the liquid. “It’s the real one. I can feel it.”

  “If so,” Amanda said, “it’s bloody well-traveled.” She summarized. “From what we know, ancient Israelites brought it to the Catskills after the Roman destruction of Jerusalem, then the Templars retrieved it in 1178 and brought it back to Seborga, near Genoa, only to have Columbus turn around and return it to Nova Scotia in 1477. There the Cistercians safeguarded it and eventually brought it to Cumberland.”

  “And now us,” Astarte said, grinning.

  The room silent for a few seconds until Cam spoke. “I still can’t believe Brian put it there. In the backpack. He really did do the right thing after all.”

  They had replayed the scene in their minds, all of them remembering a slight delay with Brian fumbling with Astarte’s backpack after seemingly placing the clay tube in the back of the van. They agreed he must have performed a slight of hand, sliding the tube up his sleeve and then dropping it into her pack.

  “But I didn’t feel anything,” Astarte said.

  “I’m guessing you were pretty scared,” Cam replied. “And the pack was loose. Not surprising you didn’t notice.”

  “The question, of course, is why?” Amanda said.

  “I think he must have known what was going to happen. That’s why he told Astarte to run. Maybe he saw the sniper in the tree. Maybe he even parked next to the propane tank on purpose.”

  Amanda nodded. “Could be. That parking lot was empty, and there really was no reason to be over near the garage building.”

  “That’s how. But we still don’t know why.” Cam shook his head. “Marcotte kept insisting he was changed, reformed. But to let himself be blown up?” He held up his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “It does seem a bit out of character.”

  “A bit?”

  “Well, maybe more than a bit.” Amanda smiled. “How about totally?”

  “Marcotte kept telling me he had changed,” Cam repeated.

  “So are we going to tell the monsignor?” Astarte asked.

  “I think we have to,” Cam replied.

  “Agreed,” Amanda said. “But the scroll’s ours. We found it. We get to choose the narrative.”

  Cam pulled his phone from his pocket. Smiling, he angled his head. “It’s barely seven o’clock. Too early to call?”

  Amanda shook her head. “He’s a priest. If he’s hungover, it’s his own fault.” She grinned, holding his eyes. Cupping her hand aside her mouth as if telling a secret, she pointed at the scroll on the table between them and stage-whispered, “Plus, you know, it’s the bloody Jesus marriage contract.”

  Monsignor Marcotte was at their front door within a half hour, dapper as usual in a blue blazer and pressed slacks. Cam greeted him. All they had told the priest was that they had made an urgent discovery they wanted to share with him. In the meantime, they had photographed the scroll.

  Wordlessly, Cam began to usher the prelate toward the kitchen.

  “Wait,” Marcotte said. “Before you show me your surprise, I have something for you.” From beneath his blazer he pulled the swagger sword. The wooden handle had been burnt off in the fire, and the metal darkened, but the carvings were still visible on the blade. He handed it to Cam. “It was in its case, partially protected. Pretty much the only thing to survive the fire. When I drove down with Brian’s aunt to retrieve his effects, the police gave it to me. I’d like you to have it.” He paused. “I think Brian would have liked you to have it.”

  Cam smiled sadly, his eyes misting as he studied the sword. It would make quite a keepsake. Much more so than Marcotte currently realized. “Thank you,” he said simply.

  “Now,” the priest said, continuing toward the kitchen. “What did you drag me out of bed to see?”

  Cam gestured at the scroll. “It was in Astarte’s backpack. Somehow Brian slipped it in there before the explosion.”

  Marcotte staggered, steadying himself against the kitchen counter. “My God,” he whispered. “I thought it was gone forever.” He shuffled closer, his hands crossed on his chest. “Is it the real thing?”

  “I think so,” Amanda said. “In fact, based on everything we know, I’m almost certain.”

  The monsignor reached out with a shaky hand. “May I touch it? “Not the written areas,” Amanda replied. “But the corner should be okay. It’s smooth, like glove leather. Like old parchment.”

  He stared, reverently, for a few seconds. Then he turned suddenly and engulfed Cam in a hug. “Thank you, my friend. Thank you for trusting me.”

  Cam smiled at Amanda over the priest’s shoulder. “You’re welcome. But I can’t say I always trusted you.”

  Stepping back, Marcotte nodded. “Yes, but the old saying is true. To believe with certainty, we must begin with doubting.” Smiling, he continued. “And now, I think it is safe to say, you believe me when I say that Brian is reformed?” He frowned. “Or, was reformed?”

  “How could I doubt it? He did an incredibly selfless thing. But I’m still not certain why.”

  “May we sit?” the priest asked. “Apparently the past few days have taken a toll on this old body.”

  Cam and Astarte and Marcotte moved to the living room while Amanda stood at the kitchen table and carefully slid the scroll into an oversized Ziploc bag and sealed it closed.

  The priest answered Cam’s question. “It took Brian a long time, but eventually he came to grips with his experience as a youth. With being abused.” Marcotte fixed his eyes on Astarte. “With being sexually abused. When it comes to abuse, it is important to not hide behind euphemisms.” He paused. “Slowly Brian’s anger turned to acceptance, and his acceptance to resolve. He wanted to redress the wrong. Unlike Emanuela, he did not want revenge, did not want to kill the Church. He wanted change. In this, he and I saw eye-to-eye. The Church is sick, but it is curable.” He motioned toward the ketubah in the next room. “And the marriage scroll was the perfect medicine.”

  “You know,” Amanda said as she reentered the room, “Emanuela was wrong. When back at the Masonic Lodge she said that revenge was neither positive nor negative. It’s totally negative, totally destructive.”

  Marcotte lifted his chin. “Yes. And Brian came to understand that. Again, he wanted reform, not revenge.”

  “But Brian was such a … lout,” Amanda said, throwing up her hands as. “I’m having trouble reconciling the man you’re describing with the man we knew. All he ever talked about was getting rich from the treasure.”

  Marcotte nodded. “That was part of our plan, a role we needed him to play. To win Emanuela’s trust, we needed someone she felt she could understand and control. And no man is more understandable, more controllable, than a greedy one. Simply feed him money, and he will do your bidding.” He turne
d to Cam. “And, as I told you, we feared you would not agree to let him back into your life. But I needed him. Needed his sword. So we made up the cancer lie.” He sat back. “Brian was by no means perfect. In fact, lout is a fair description of him. But some of what you saw the past week was an act.”

  Cam leaned forward. “So that was the plan all along? For Brian to let himself get killed?”

  “Not at all.” The priest held a long blink. “With this sacrifice, Brian surprises even me. He must have been faced with a terrible choice: Allow the scroll to be destroyed, or himself perish. And think about what he accomplished. Not only did he save the scroll, but he freed us from the Vatican hardliners. They believe the scroll was incinerated; in their mind, they watched it burn. Brian must have played out the possibilities in his mind and understood we were outgunned, realized that his grand sacrifice was the only way for us to win, the only way for us to walk away with the ketubah.” Marcotte bowed his head. “I am humbled at what he has done.”

  Cam chewed his lip, his eyes drifting out over the frozen lake. A memory washed over him: He and Brian and friends playing pond hockey on a cold, sunny day. Brian scored the game-winning goal and celebrated by diving headfirst into the snowbank ringing the rink. Extracting himself, he brushed the snow off his face and put his arm around Cam’s shoulder. “Who has more fun than us, huh buddy?” he asked. “I’ll tell you who: Nobody!”

  Cam blinked away a tear. His friend had been in pain for a long time. And Cam had not been there for him. But at least, in the end, with the help of Monsignor Marcotte, he had found some peace. For Cam, that decided it. The Catholic Church may be an imperfect institution. But as long as men like Monsignor Marcotte were in positions of authority, it was worth saving.

  Cam saw the path ahead, knowing intuitively that Amanda would see it the same way. They would make public the ancient ketubah, share it with the world. The marriage contract was drawn as a commemoration of love, of joy, of honor. It should be used accordingly, as a tool to build and enhance and improve. Not a weapon of destruction. Amanda was correct: Nothing positive came from revenge. Monsignor Marcotte would have his reforms. But Emanuela, even in death, would not have her vengeance.