The last light McLovick had turned off was in the rear of the second floor. Salazar crept up another set of stairs, the goggles turning his world a monochromatic green. As he approached the top stair he heard loud snoring from the back bedroom. Good. The Scotsman was likely in the deeper stages of non-REM sleep. Even so, he palmed the revolver-shaped taser and readied it. He edged toward the bedroom, testing each step before putting weight on a potentially creaky floorboard, the snoring serving as a beacon in the night. Peering into the room, he saw the large man’s form splayed diagonally atop the mattress in a white T-shirt and boxers, his open mouth and closed eyes facing the doorway.
Salazar pounced. He pushed the taser deep into the treasure hunter’s flabby midsection, squeezing the trigger as the man’s eyes opened in surprise. McLovick screamed, his body jolting off the bed, and convulsed as his muscles spasmed. Salazar moved with the victim, riding him, thankful McLovick wasn’t naked, holding the weapon against the thin fabric of his T-shirt for a five-count. At four, the screams quieted as he began to lose consciousness.
Ignoring the stench of urine and feces, he grabbed the man under his arms and, bracing himself against the wall, gently lowered him to the floor beside the bed. He bound his hands and feet together, then looped the rope around a heavy dresser. McLovick barely stirred. He found a bathroom down the hall and returned with a glass of water. He splashed the water in the treasure hunter’s face, then slapped him lightly a couple of times on the cheeks until he awoke.
“W-what the fuck is going on?” McLovick sputtered, straining at the ropes. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Salazar said quietly, his voice even and controlled. He didn’t like people who cursed; Christina used to swear in front of the baby. “But you can’t be surprised. You were warned plenty of times to leave Westford.”
The treasure hunter began to stammer a response but Salazar held up his palm to stop him. “Now, tell me about this treasure.” Reichmann’s orders had been specific: Kill McLovick. Nothing about the treasure, no instruction to question the treasure hunter or look for maps or documents that might reveal what he was digging for. He would comply with his orders. But he also needed to consider Rosalita’s future.
He waved the taser in front of McLovick’s face. From somewhere in the woods, the cat meowed up to him. “Imagine how this would feel on your balls, on your anus, maybe on your tongue.” McLovick’s eyes grew wide. From what he had observed, the treasure hunter was a nasty, selfish man. It was a good thing he was not a parent. Even so, no man deserved to suffer before dying. “Okay, I have some simple questions for you. Don’t make this difficult for either one of us.”
Ten minutes later, the questioning complete, he gently placed a blindfold over McLovick’s face. “We’re done now. Thanks for cooperating. You got nothing more to fear from me.”
He stood and took two loud steps toward the door. As McLovick relaxed at the sound of his assailant departing, Salazar silently spun back and, cobra-like, whipped his steel flashlight into the man’s temple. The single, fierce blow crushed the thin bone and ruptured McLovick’s middle meningeal artery. He died instantly, without fear or pain.
CHAPTER 4
[Monday]
Cam awoke the next morning before dawn. It was Monday, less than 48 hours since Brandon’s leg had been blown off his body.
He pulled out the cell phone Poulos lent him and called Brandon’s hospital room. Dependent on intermittent WIFI service, he would often be running blind. Maybe Uncle Peter could help him out a bit.
“Hello?”
“Brandon, that you?” He had expected Brandon’s mom or dad to answer.
“Yup. Back from the dead.” The voice was groggy, thick, flat.
Shifting the phone to his other ear, he began to pace. “Brandon, I’m really sorry.” Brandon didn’t respond so he plowed ahead. “I’ll never forgive myself for doing this to you. You were doing me a favor and you end up … well, almost dead.”
A pause, then a mumbled response. “Not your fault.”
Of course it was his fault. And of course Brandon would harbor some resentment toward him. But he wasn’t the only casualty. “They killed Pegasus.” He thumbed the dog’s collar, still in the pocket of his jeans.
“Pegasus? Shit. I’m sorry, man.” The words were still thick but at least there was some life behind them. “What the fuck is going on?”
Cam told him about his belief this was related to the Westford Knight and some kind of treasure. “I figured it’d be best to drop out of sight for a while. I’m on the run.”
“Where are you?”
Were they monitoring Brandon’s calls? Maybe he could buy himself some time. “Drove all night. Upstate New York.” He took a deep breath, afraid of the answer to the obvious question. “What are the doctors saying?”
Brandon forced the words out. “Plan is wait for the wound to heal and swelling to go down. Should take about a month.” He swallowed. “Then fit me for a prosthetic leg.”
“You actually sound pretty good.”
He snorted. “Drugs, cute nurses. Could be worse.”
Cam smiled. “You know, I was calling to talk to your dad, hoping he could do some internet surfing for me. I need to learn more about these guys, about the Westford Knight, about this treasure. But do you feel up to it?” It might be good therapy for him to feel like he was doing something productive.
“No problem. Dad can bring me a laptop. I want to catch these motherfuckers.”
“Okay, good. Do a Google search for the Westford Knight. Also try using words like ‘treasure’ and ‘map’ and ‘secret’ in the search string. If you come across any books that look interesting, get your parents to bring them in from the library. We’re trying to figure out what kind of treasure might be buried here, and why. Your dad knows most of the story—he can help you out.”
“Got it.”
“Great, get better buddy. I’ll call you later.”
* * *
The conversation with Brandon vitalized Cam. His cousin, barely out of life-saving surgery and facing months of rehab and a lifetime of hardship, was willing to do whatever he could to catch the bastards. Cam owed it to him to do the same.
He scooped some pond water into a pot and checked his blood sugar level while he waited for the water to boil for a few minutes to kill the pond bacteria. He then added the water to a bag of dehydrated scrambled eggs with ham and hash browns. Normally he would have tried to watch his fat intake but today he needed the protein.
While he ate, he studied the map in the early morning light. McLovick lived a couple of miles away, in the Graniteville section of town. Maybe it was time to have another talk with the treasure hunter.
He washed up, stuffed a few essentials in a fanny pack and set off on a slow jog along a trail that followed the banks of the Stonybrook. After about a mile, the river, now no wider than a stream, took a hairpin turn to the south while a tributary continued northwesterly toward the Gendrons’ property. He turned with the main river and jogged underneath some power lines, the sun just peeking above the tree line to his left. It wasn’t the most direct route but it kept him on high ground and cut trails.
When he reached a residential neighborhood he crouched behind some thickets and pulled out his map before crossing a main street and jogging up a dead end lined with small Colonial homes. He surveyed the numbers—McLovick’s house was the third on the left, yellow with black shutters. And a lawn that needed mowing. He retraced his steps and circled back to the Stonybrook River running behind the property.
He edged along the river bank until he was directly behind McLovick’s house. Climbing through some brush, he found a comfortable position face down next to a tree and surveyed the house. No movement inside. A white sedan—the same one McLovick drove to court—was parked in the gravel driveway. What time did treasure hunters wake in the morning? Cam glanced at his watch. Damn—his hand was shaking. The two-mile jog may have messed up his b
lood sugar. He rolled to his side and pulled his blood glucose meter from his pack. A small lancet from the device pricked his finger and he squeezed a drop of blood onto the shiny gold, inch-long plastic test strip he had inserted into the meter. Five seconds later the meter confirmed his blood sugar was low. He grabbed a granola bar from his pack and refocused on McLovick’s house.
Just after 7:00 but still no movement. Using binoculars, he studied the rear of the house. The paint was peeling, the gutters were loose and the basement door jamb was splintered as if someone had forced it open. He pulled the lost cell phone out of his pack and dialed McLovick’s number, the ringing audible through an open window on the second floor. On the fourth ring McLovick’s Scottish accent curtly instructed callers to leave a message. He hung up and redialed using his own cell phone—maybe McLovick would see Cam’s name on the caller I.D. and answer. Still nothing.
He was tempted to peer through a window, maybe check the water meter to see if McLovick might be running the shower. But voices from next door—a mother sending a child off to the bus stop—stopped him. He ducked lower, peered out. A dog, out on a walk with its owner, barked his way and pulled at its leash. The neighborhood was waking up. Time to get out of here before someone saw him and called the cops.
As if on cue, a police cruiser pulled up in front of McLovick’s house. Good. Maybe here to question him about the Bobcat explosion. Or about Pegasus’ death. A tall, thin officer strolled to the front door, where Cam lost sight of him. The policeman knocked loudly. “Mr. McLovick, hello? Anyone home? Hello?” The officer returned to his car and made a call on his radio before walking toward the rear of the property.
Cam would have liked to stick around and see if the police found McLovick—and if so, what they wanted with him—but he was not likely to be able to learn much from the woods anyway. And it wouldn’t be good to be found hiding in them.
* * *
Cam needed a set of wheels. If the whole Sinclair legend was true, there was more to it than just the Knight and Boat Stone in Westford. He had read briefly about other New England sites that indicated pre-Columbus visits by Europeans. If even half of what he read was true, Columbus had arrived fashionably late to the New World’s Grand Opening party and it was time to do some serious rewriting of history books. In any event, he would need to visit these sites, learn all he could about them, figure out if any of them were pieces of the Prince Henry puzzle he was trying to fit together.
He phoned Brandon at the hospital with the lost cell phone, which was thankfully still in service. Uncle Peter answered.
“Do you have your cell phone?” Cam asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you right back on that.” It was unlikely Cam’s pursuers had tapped Peter’s number. Yet.
“How’s Brandon doing?”
Peter exhaled a long sigh. “All right, I suppose. Other than his leg, physically he should be fine. His doctor’s a bit worried about his psychological state—it’s almost like he’s in a state of denial. He’s acting like nothing happened. You know Brandon; he prides himself on not letting anything get to him. He’s actually too upbeat.”
“Well, denial is the first stage of grief. So it makes sense.” Anger would be next.
“I suppose so. Anyway, I’m glad you called, Cameron. This Westford Knight stuff is bullshit. I’m disappointed in you, wasting your time with it.”
Apparently Peter had already moved on to the anger stage. Cam took a deep breath. His uncle was one of those people who lived in a black and white world—there was no room for legends or myths or possibilities. Either something was true or it was false. Either someone was guilty or he was innocent. One of his favorite sayings was that a girl couldn’t be a little bit pregnant. It was a quality that made him a tenacious, though sometimes not overly effective, advocate for his clients. “It may not be bullshit, Peter. In fact, it’s why Brandon got his leg blown off.”
“I’ve been reading up on it. Despite what that pretty librarian says, there’s not a single reputable historian who buys the story.”
“Well, look for a non-reputable historian then.”
“Come on, Cameron, use your brain. We’re supposed to believe that all the history books are wrong, that these Scottish explorers landed in Westford of all places? We’re 30 miles from the goddamn coast. And some of these kooks think they buried the Holy Grail over here. You might as well go searching for aliens. You’re wasting your time.”
Cam counted to three. “Look, forget the whole Holy Grail thing. The point is that someone out there thinks the Prince Henry legend is real. So real that they put a bomb in a Bobcat and then tried to run me down and then killed my dog. So if we want to figure this all out, we have to educate ourselves.”
“There’s nothing to educate ourselves on! This is all a bunch of hogwash. You’re on the wrong track, Cameron. And if you’re not, you’re dealing with people who are truly delusional. Either way, you’re putting yourself in danger. It’s time to stop this nonsense. Let the police do their jobs before you get hurt also.”
He didn’t have time for this. “I really need to talk to Brandon, Peter. Please.”
“Sorry,” Brandon said weakly after a few seconds. “Dad’s a bit upset.”
“No problem, I understand. You got a minute?”
“Yeah, doc just left.”
“I need wheels. Something they won’t trace to me. But be careful, this line might be tapped.”
“I hear you.” He paused. “I introduced you to a guy a few weeks ago, over at the 99 Restaurant. An Orioles fan.”
“Right.” The guy played on Brandon’s softball team and owned a small used car lot.
“He’ll help you out. Tell him I sent you. And he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“Thanks. Get some rest, Cuz.”
He hiked back through the woods. By mid-morning he was behind the wheel of a dark blue, 12-year-old Subaru wagon with 155,000 miles on it. But Brandon’s buddy swore by the engine. One exit south on Route 3 he found the Wal-Mart in Chelmsford. He purchased a couple of boxes of power bars, three cases of bottled water, another dozen freeze-dried meals and two TracFones—disposable, prepaid cell phones that didn’t require any credit information and therefore couldn’t be traced. He put 400 minutes on each phone, paid cash for everything and turned his face away from the security camera as he left the store.
As he loaded the Subaru, he spotted a Starbucks across the parking lot—most Starbucks offered WiFi service. Before driving he needed to know where he was going. He grabbed his laptop and a legal pad, paid for the service and found an empty table toward the back of the restaurant. After testing his blood sugar and delivering his insulin, he treated himself to a cup of hot chocolate and a corn muffin while his laptop booted. He typed ‘Westford Knight’ and ‘Sinclair’ into a Google search string.
Most of the sites related the same general story: In 1398, Prince Henry Sinclair, the Earl of Roslyn, sailed westward from the Orkney Islands north of Scotland. The fleet of a dozen boats carrying a few hundred men ‘island-hopped’ across the Atlantic from the Faeroe Islands to Iceland to Greenland to Newfoundland (where they were driven off by hostile natives) and eventually to Guysborough Harbor in Nova Scotia.
Details of the journey were recounted in the Zeno Narrative, a mid-16th century Zeno family nautical history outlining a journey undertaken in the late 14th century by a Zeno ancestor serving as navigator on a fleet led by a Scottish prince traveling to lands to the west of Greenland. The Narrative identified the Scottish prince as Zichmi, a deviation from the name Sinclair that later scholars ascribed to a simple penmanship error. The Narrative also identified unique topographical landmarks of Nova Scotia, most specifically a open tar pit about 50 miles from Guysborough Harbor.
In addition to the Zeno Narrative, other evidence supporting the legend included:
ruins of a castle found in Nova Scotia;
a 14th-century Venetian cannon (Venice being the home of the Zeno navig
ators) found in Nova Scotia’s Louisburg harbor;
carvings of American maize and aloe, unknown to Europeans before Columbus’ voyage, adorning Roslyn Chapel and completed decades before Columbus sailed; and
the Glooscap legend, a Native American tale of a blond-haired deity sailing from the east on a one-winged bird (that is, a large, sail-powered vessel) who taught them how to fish with nets.
After arriving in Nova Scotia, the legend continued, Prince Henry and his group befriended the natives and spent the winter. Cam, himself a hockey player, especially appreciated the report from British soldiers at the time of the founding of Halifax, Nova Scotia in 1749 to the effect that the Mi’kmaq natives played shinny, an early form of ice hockey, and that their oral history said that it was taught to their ancestors by blond-haired visitors from the east.
Most of the expedition returned to Scotland in the spring while Prince Henry remained with a few boats and a score of men to continue their explorations. Guided by natives, he traveled south along the New England coastline, eventually moving inland via the Merrimack River to the highest point in eastern Massachusetts, an Indian gathering spot that is now known as Prospect Hill in Westford. While on Prospect Hill his loyal lieutenant and friend, Sir James Gunn, died and Prince Henry ordered his armorist to inscribe an appropriate funereal effigy for the fallen knight on an outcropping of bedrock.
Cam continued surfing, following the links, adding new search words and jotting down other New England sites related to Prince Henry’s expedition. He also uncovered significant evidence supporting some type of pre-Columbus, post-Viking European contact, despite Rhonda Blank’s assertions to the contrary: stones with runic inscriptions (runes being a medieval Scandinavian alphabet still in use in Iceland) found in northern Maine, Cape Cod and Narragansett, Rhode Island; a stone tower in Newport, Rhode Island; a stone dam and medieval gargoyle on a lake on the Vermont-Quebec border; extensive Native American oral history; linguistic similarities between the Algonquin language and Scottish; and even DNA evidence hinting at a genetic link between Native Americans and Northern Europeans.
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 9