Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  Ignoring the rocks and twigs jabbing at his bare feet, he scrambled over the sandy beach area and sprinted toward the house. “Pegasus, where are you boy?” Hearing a faint whimper, he tore around the corner and spotted Pegasus curled in a golden ball near the front step, a thin gray archery arrow protruding from his shoulder. He slid to the dog’s side. Pegasus whimpered a greeting, shakily lifted his head toward Cam’s face.

  He hugged the dog and gently stroked his forehead. “It’s okay, fella.” He yanked his cell phone from his jeans pocket and punched 9-1-1 into the pad, giving his name and the address as he pulled back Pegasus’ fur thickened by warm, sticky blood. “My dog’s been shot. Please send an ambulance.”

  “Um, I’m sorry, sir but we don’t respond to veterinary emergencies.” A woman’s voice, kind but firm. “You’ll need to bring the animal to an animal hospital.”

  He swallowed a curse as he looked into Pegasus’ eyes—the dog was barely conscious. “Come on fella, hold on.” He lifted him, the dog resting his head on Cam’s neck. As he did so, he noticed a piece of paper wound tightly around the arrow just below the feathers, secured by clear tape. He set Pegasus back down, ripped the tape off and unwound the bubble gum-wrapper-size scroll. “Last Warning,” it read.

  Shaking with fury, he lifted Pegasus again and staggered a block toward his SUV. He groped for the passenger side door handle, tears clouding his vision, and gently lay Pegasus on the seat. The dog was now shivering, his breathing fast and shallow, his eyes closed.

  He ran around to the driver’s side, grabbed a blanket from the back seat and covered Pegasus with it. It didn’t seem to help—there was simply not enough blood left in the dog’s body to keep it warm. Cranking the heat, he aimed the vents at Pegasus and sped down the street. At the corner he stopped, resting his hand on Pegasus’ head. The dog stared up and offered a single last whimper before sinking deep into the seat. Cam shifted into Park, closed his eyes and dropped his head on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  A soft rap on the window jarred Cam back to reality. He lifted his head off the steering wheel and opened his eyes. Lieutenant Poulos stood in the street, his eyes averted from Cam’s tear-strewn face. Cam took a deep breath, wiped his face with his sleeve and opened the window.

  “I heard there was a 9-1-1 call from your address. Something about a dog being shot. Thought I should check it out.” Poulos glanced at Pegasus’ dead body. “I’m sorry about the dog.”

  He nodded, careful not to let his eyes follow the policeman’s.

  “Listen,” Poulos continued, “how about we go back to your place.”

  He was in the middle of the street, his SUV still running. He needed to clear his head, to try to act rationally. Poulos could probably help in that regard. “Okay.”

  They drove up the street and pulled into Cam’s driveway. Poulos pulled a shovel from his trunk. “Might be a nice idea to bury the dog in your backyard.”

  “Okay.”

  Poulos opened the passenger door. “I’m just gonna grab the arrow first. It’s evidence. Maybe we can grab a print from it, or trace it.”

  Cam fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper. “This was taped to the arrow.”

  Poulos scowled. “Guess there wasn’t much chance this was random.” He tucked the note and the arrow into an evidence bag. Another squad car had arrived and Poulos directed an officer to search the woods across the street for evidence. Poulos gently lifted Pegasus out of the car and waited for Cam to lead him to a spot in the backyard.

  “This was his favorite spot, in the shade under that tree.”

  Poulos set Pegasus down and stuck the shovel deep into the ground, the man’s strength evident in the thrust. Cam reached for the shovel. “Thanks but I’ll do it.” The officer surrendered the shovel and he threw himself into digging the grave. He dug angrily, fiercely, deeper and deeper into the ground. The sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, and the tears flowed. It was odd. He felt terrible about Brandon’s injuries—he had put his cousin in harm’s way—but there was no way he could have seen it coming. To leave Pegasus home alone was just plain stupid. The tears were of frustration as much as sadness.

  After about 20 minutes, Poulos put a hand on his sweat-stained shoulder. “That’s deep enough, son.”

  Nodding, he stepped out of the thigh-high hole. He lifted Pegasus off the blood-stained blanket, gently lowering the dog into the hole. Lying on his stomach, he reached down and arranged Pegasus’s paws and head into what he thought was a comfortable position, then removed his collar and slipped it into his pocket. He kissed his hand and touched the dog’s nose. “I’m sorry, fella.”

  Poulos filled the hole with dirt while Cam stared out at the lake. The policeman cleared his throat. “My guy found some broken branches in those woods across the street. Probably where the arrow was shot from. But nothing else, no debris or nothing.” He paused. “Any idea what’s going on here, Cameron?”

  He trusted the old football coach but didn’t really have much to tell him. “Not really. Someone’s pissed that I’m poking around the Gendrons’ property. But I don’t know why.”

  “Somebody said this might have something to do with the Westford Knight.”

  “Yeah, it seems like it. That’s why I was talking to this woman at the library today. There’s a legend that the people who carved the Knight might also have buried some treasure here.”

  “Look, I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never heard boo about any treasure. In fact, I don’t even think that whole Knight story is legit. Anybody could’ve carved that rock.”

  Amanda’s comment echoed in Cam’s head. “But that almost doesn’t matter. Whether the Knight is real or not, or whether there’s a treasure buried here or not, the fact is that some people around here believe the legends and they’re getting pretty pissed off we’re getting in their way.”

  “You’re right.” Poulos hitched his pants up over his bulging waist. “Because of that, I figured we should go dig up the Gendrons’ yard, see what all the fuss is about. But it’s a crime scene so first I had to run it by the District Attorney’s office. Pretty basic stuff, happens all the time. But they vetoed it. Some mumbo jumbo about it being a potentially historically significant site that can only be dug up by a licensed archeologist.”

  “What makes them think it’s historically significant?” They obviously hadn’t been talking to Rhonda Blank.

  “That’s what I said. Their answer was that if this McLovick fellow, who apparently is some kind of famous treasure hunter, was interested in it, then it must be significant.”

  “Sort of circular reasoning if you ask me.”

  “I agree. But the bottom line is we can’t dig over there. Not without more evidence to justify it.” They both looked down at Pegasus. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I can’t just stay here and wait for these assholes to take me out. I’m going to disappear for a while, try to figure this all out on the run.”

  Poulos shifted. “I like the idea of you getting out of town for a while. For your own safety. But you should drop it. Let us do our job.”

  “You know I can’t to do that.” He locked his eyes onto the officer’s.

  While Poulos waited, Cam packed his camping gear in a large backpack along with road maps and a couple dozen packets of freeze-dried food and trail mix. He devoted a side pocket to his blood sugar monitor, test strips, pump supplies and insulin, plus an insulated lunch bag and some freezer packs to keep the insulin cold. He also grabbed a roll of cash he stashed in an old sneaker for emergencies along with his digital camera and laptop computer with portable charger. It would be the laptop’s first camping trip.

  He left the pack on the floor of the cottage’s living area and pushed through the front door to where Poulos was finishing a call. Cam stuck out his hand. “I wanted to thank you for your help. And your concern. I appreciate it.”

  “Nothing to thank me for. I’ll keep an eye on Brandon while
you’re gone.” He handed Cam a slip of paper. “Here’s my cell number. Use it if you need it.” He pulled another cell phone from his trousers’ pocket. “We have a few of these we use for domestic violence cases. You can use it in an emergency.”

  “You think my cell is being tapped?”

  Poulos pursed his lips. “Probably. At least you should assume it is.”

  “Sounds like this McLovick is pretty sophisticated.” As an underwater treasure hunter, he would have the latest technology.

  “Him, or someone else.” Poulos walked slowly to his squad car, opened the door and leaned his chest on the window. He wiped the sweat from his face. “You seem like you’re on the right track with this Westford Knight stuff. Just check in with me once in a while—I’ll keep looking from my end, try to piece some stuff together.” He kicked at the ground. “And be careful.”

  The officer drove away. They both knew it would be best if he didn’t ask where Cam was going.

  * * *

  Hunched a bit under the weight of his pack, Cam walked stiff-kneed down the slope to the tired wooden dock secured to his beach area by a couple of fraying metal cables. After a final glance back to Pegasus’ grave, he tossed the pack onto the deck of his aluminum fishing boat and yanked the ripcord on the small outboard engine. Anybody following him would expect him to travel by car.

  He puttered along the shoreline toward the swamp area at the end of the lake. Once in the swamp he veered into a sheltered, shallow area, cut the engine and listened for any sound of a trailing boat. A few boaters in the main part of the lake enjoyed the fall warmth but nobody approached the swamp. After a half-minute he restarted the engine and navigated his way deeper into the marshy wetlands.

  Recent rain had raised the water level and he was able to wind his way along with only an occasional thud of the boat bottom against a submerged rock or tree stump. He passed another fishing boat—two teenage boys—and waved politely. An old railroad track bordered the swamp and he angled toward a sandbar near the tracks. After gunning the throttle, he cut the engine and lifted the prop out of the water, allowing the boat to coast onto the bar. He hopped out the front, dragged the boat under an overhanging tree and covered it with some brush. He didn’t plan on needing it again. But that didn’t mean he didn’t plan to return to some type of normal life again either.

  He threw the pack over his shoulders, pulled himself up the embankment and began hiking along the rail line. After a few hundred yards he came to a main road, crossed it quickly and trudged into a wooded area on the far side. He ducked behind a cluster of trees, covered himself with leaves and twigs and pulled some binoculars from his pack. If he had been followed, his pursuers would need to show themselves to cross the road.

  He waited almost an hour, scanning the road and the rail line. Nothing. Unless they were tracking him from above, he had lost any tails. At least for now.

  He pulled himself to his feet, stretched his legs and moved away from the road in the fading daylight. He was now in the East Boston Camps area of town, a 300-acre preservation area the town recently purchased to prevent development. It would be fairly empty on a Sunday night in September, especially away from the main trails. Hopefully the weather forecasts were correct and it would remain dry and temperate. Interestingly, the Stonybrook River ran through the site, connecting the Westford Knight site to the Boat Stone discovery site. If Cam was going to figure this whole Prince Henry mystery out, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to follow his trail a bit, to camp where he had camped, to see the land as he had seen it.

  He followed a trail deeper into the woods until he reached Burge’s pond. There were a few buildings on the north side of the pond that housed a summer camp for children; he rounded the pond to its more deserted southern shore, found a flat, dry area sheltered by a large oak tree and made camp. This would be home. For however long it took.

  * * *

  Jacob Whitewolf Salazar lay on his stomach in a small wooded area and studied the rear of the box-shaped house through his night vision goggles. In some ways he welcomed the mosquitoes buzzing around him, the bites a small penance for the dog’s suffering. The idiot he had been working with—some hothead from Mexico named Felipe—missed the animal’s heart. Salazar should have taken the shot himself—as much as he abhorred the order, at least he would have done it right. Hours later, the sound of the dog’s whimpering still echoed in his head. He located Mars, the warrior star, and offered a quick prayer for the animal’s soul. Death was part of his job. In many ways, in fact, death was his entire job. But there did not have to be suffering. The Bobcat explosion was another example—Felipe should have killed the man, or not planted the bomb at all. Leaving a man crippled dishonored him. The spirits of the man’s ancestors would haunt Felipe.

  He rolled into a sitting position, thankful he was working alone now. Security work, they called it. Mercenary work was more like it. All he knew about his employers was that they were from Argentina, had close ties to the Catholic church and often needed people intimidated or killed. He took orders from a guy named Reichmann.

  Almost three o’clock in the morning and no movement in the house. The treasure hunter had turned the lights off two hours ago. Salazar broke off a piece of Slim Jim and offered it to a cat—Minerva, according to her tag—that had befriended him. Wherever he found himself—Asia, Europe, Latin America—a cat soon appeared. As a youth he had saved a tabby from torture at the hands of a neighborhood bully and nursed it back to health. The cat died a few years later but its spirit remained, guiding and protecting him ever since. He had explained it all to his mother before she died, perhaps a decade ago:

  “So now the cat’s soul stays with me, like a guardian spirit.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that, Jacob.” He still remembered how her brown eyes had grown wide in worry, how she clutched her rosary beads. “There is no such thing as animal spirits. Only Jesus can save you.”

  “You shouldn’t have married daddy, mama.”

  “Your father was not the problem. It is your grandfather who put these crazy ideas in your head.” He loved her too much to point out the Narragansett legends were no more crazy than the story of an immaculate conception.

  A leaf crunched beneath him. It was odd to be home in New England—normally he was deployed in Latin America or Europe. Not that it mattered; the assignments were all the same—interminable stretches of inaction interrupted by a few minutes of intense, often fatal, activity. Because he was well-trained, fit and meticulous, the risks were minimal. And the pay was decent, enough to send money to his mother-in-law every month to care for Rosalita. Her seventh birthday was in two weeks; hopefully he’d be off-duty and still in New England—she deserved at least one parent to celebrate with her. Christina’s weekend in Miami with her girlfriends six years ago turned into a three week bender followed by 90 days in rehab. A week later she went out to grab some coffee and never came back. No goodbye, no postcard, nothing. Just a little girl missing her mommy. And a $30,000 bill for the rehab.

  His parents were dead and he couldn’t exactly drag Rosalita around the world with him on paramilitary assignments so she moved in with Christina’s mother in Providence. He finished a room above her garage and stayed there when he was in town. It was unconventional but it actually worked out okay. The only problem was Gloria’s insistence on immersing the girl in Catholicism. No doubt his own mother’s spirit was pleased.

  He ducked deeper into the woods and dialed the special phone line they set up at Gloria’s house. “Good morning little flower.” Rosalita would check the answering machine when she awoke. “I was wondering if the Tooth Fairy came last night? I hope so. Maybe you can use the money to buy Daddy a gift, huh? Making a new fishing pole?” He laughed, muffling his voice with his hand. “Speaking of gifts, I got a special one for your birthday.” Over the past few months he had assembled and painted a true-to-scale, ginger-bread-style doll house from a kit; refinishing the room above Gloria’s garage had required
less work. “Only 15 days ’til you’re seven! I bet you’re growing bigger every day. And I bet you can give Daddy a big, strong hug! Well, okay, I need to go now. I love you very much. I’ll try to call when you get home from school today. Oh, and don’t forget to feed your kitty and brush her hair.”

  The Scotsman lived alone. Not even any pets, which said a lot about the man. Salazar rubbed Minerva’s neck a final time, threw his satchel over his shoulder and, staying in the shadows, edged across the back yard toward the house. He decided against cutting the electricity—things like cordless phones started beeping when power failed, which might wake the man. McLovick was his name. Bigger than Salazar, a few inches taller than six feet but soft. No military training. But strange things sometimes happened when men collided in battle. A lucky blow, an unexpected weapon, a slip—any of these could negate his special forces training.

  He removed a crowbar from his bag, wedged it between the basement door and the jamb and, with a quick twist, snapped the door open, splintering the wood. The smell of heating oil and dank air filled his nostrils as he padded into the cellar, reminding him of the triple-decker he grew up in New Bedford, an old fishing and whaling city south of Boston. His grandparents lived on the first floor, he lived on the second with his parents and two sisters and his uncle lived alone at the top. Most of the time his dad and uncle were at sea, fishing. His grandfather was a stonemason but he also loved to work with wood; Salazar spent a lot of his childhood with him making furniture in the basement workshop. One time they made a dugout canoe out of a single tree trunk, just as his Narragansett ancestors had done.

  He ducked beneath the pipes and listened for the sound of movement upstairs. Hearing nothing, he unclipped the taser gun from his belt and continued to the staircase. He climbed the stairs four at a time, using his arms on the railing to support his weight so the stairs did not creak. A small tin of oil from his pack served to lubricate the door hinges at the top of the stairs and he slowly pushed the door open.