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

by David S. Brody

  Cam pointed the Subaru south toward the Newport Tower, it being the most easily-accessible of the sites as well as the most prominent. He cut through Boston rather than skirting it on the outer highways; he was pretty sure he wasn’t being followed but he was also pretty sure he was playing out of his league right now. A pro football coach had once explained what it was like to be a rookie quarterback in the NFL—the player didn’t know enough to know what he didn’t know. Cam was the rookie quarterback. Would he even know if he was being followed?

  He made good time in the midday traffic and crossed the Zakim Bridge into Boston, exiting the Central Artery and winding his way toward his old office building in the Financial District. Periodically he checked his rearview mirror but he really didn’t expect to be able to pick out a tail. But he also didn’t expect a tail to have a parking pass to the Center Plaza parking garage—he had kept his after being fired and the firm forgot to disable it. After making sure nobody slid through the gate with him, he accelerated down the ramp and sped through the garage toward a second egress. He laid on the horn as he drove, warning cars and pedestrians away, before racing back up a ramp to an exit gate. He reinserted his card, the gate rose in front of him and he wheeled out onto a side street. Any tail would have had to drive slowly through the garage to avoid giving themselves away and then lose more time by stopping and paying the cashier. He didn’t waste any time pushing his advantage: He cut left out of the parking lot and climbed Beacon Hill, darting through the maze of one-way streets and narrow alleys that comprised the city’s oldest neighborhood, thankful for the years he spent living in the city. Seven or eight turns later, he cut downhill on Beacon Street, took a left on Arlington Street just past the Cheers bar and raced through a yellow light in front of the old Armory building. A block later he turned onto the Mass Pike on-ramp, confident that he had not been followed.

  He made good time to Newport, still ahead of the afternoon rush hour. As he distanced himself from Westford, the tension seeped out of his neck and shoulders. It had been, what, two days since Brandon turned the key to the Bobcat and changed their lives? He shook his head—the Cam who woke up Saturday morning would barely recognize the Cam on his way to Newport on Monday afternoon. It was like one of those alternate-universe science fiction shows. The characters were the same but their lives were totally different. In any event, the Monday Cam was happy to be out of peril-filled Westford, a place the Saturday Cam had always considered sleepy and sheltered.

  Just before five o’clock, he pulled into the parking lot of the Newport visitor’s center. “I’m looking for the Newport Tower.”

  “Hmm, never heard of that one,” a college-age clerk at the information kiosk answered politely.

  “How about an old stone windmill?” Some people believed that’s what it was.

  The worker shrugged again. “Hold on, let me ask someone else.” He called an older woman over. Cam repeated the inquiry. Another shrug.

  How could this be? The stuff he read made it sound like the Newport Tower was the biggest historical mystery on the East Coast. How could the tourist bureau not know anything about it?

  “Is it part of the mansions?” the woman asked. Newport was famous for its industrial-era summer “cottages”—mammoth, opulent residences built as summer playgrounds for the titans of American industry and finance.

  “No, it’s a round stone tower, probably in the oldest part of town.”

  The woman pulled out a tourist map, a hand-drawn schematic displaying restaurants, hotels and tourist attractions. She drew a circle around a ten-block area east of Newport Harbor. “That’s the oldest part of town.”

  “What’s that?” He pointed to a round gray thimble-like object marked ‘Old Stone Mill.’

  “Gee, I don’t know.” She drew a line on the map. “But it’s easy to find—just go up Touro Street, then bear right onto Bellevue.”

  He found Touro Street and slowed as he passed the Touro Synagogue, the oldest synagogue in the country. Roger Williams, an early proponent of religious freedom, founded Rhode Island; the plaque out front related how Jewish settlers established a congregation soon after in 1658. A block further on, still climbing a hill, he stopped at a traffic light in front of the curiously-named Viking Hotel. Across the street a granite arch marked the entrance to the wrought iron-enclosed Touro Cemetery. According to the map the Newport Tower, assuming that’s what was on the map, was located in Touro Park. Touro Street, Touro Synagogue, Touro Cemetery, Touro Park. More than a coincidence, obviously but what was the connection? His problem was he didn’t know enough about any of this to be able to make the proper inquiries, to understand a clue even when he stumbled upon one.

  The light turned and he continued another couple of blocks to a park on his right. He turned onto Mill Street and there it was: a round stone tower, maybe 30 feet high, rising majestically off the lawn on eight cylindrical pillars, each pillar joined to its neighbor by a stone arch. He shook his head: Who had taken the time to piece together the thousands of stones, and why? A single square window, twenty feet in the air, winked at him as the setting sun played off a piece of quartz; the Tower, like an aging but still-skilled seductress, was attempting to reel in a fresh admirer.

  [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:DSCN3887_newporttower_e.jpg ]

  THE NEWPORT TOWER, NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, USA

  Cam had visited every Colonial historic site on the East Coast—most notably Colonial Williamsburg and Plimouth Plantation—and not a single other structure resembled the tower in front of him. Jamestown boasted the remains of a 1690 church tower but it was built of brick, not stone, and it was square. And Plimouth Plantation depicted a Plymouth colony constructed totally of wooden structures. A row of 18th-century stone houses existed on Huguenot Street in the Hudson Valley town of New Paltz, New York but they were built by French settlers, not English. And even these settlers built their original houses in the late 1600s with wood.

  He shook his head at the memory of his encounter in the tourist center. How could anyone, never mind someone working in a tourist center, not know about this tower? It was so clearly unique among the Colonial architecture, so flagrantly inconsistent with the clapboard and brick construction of every other nearby structure, so obviously out of place on this side of the Atlantic. It reminded him of a wedding he once attended where a guest entered the church wearing a kilt. Nobody doubted that the man was Scottish even though the wedding was in New York. Similarly, how could anyone think this tower was anything but European?

  He approached a sign at the edge of the park. “The Old Stone Mill’s past is clouded by historical uncertainty,” the sign read. “No direct proof exists confirming the date of its construction but there is considerable evidence suggesting it was built sometime between 1653 and 1677 by Benedict Arnold, the first Colonial governor of Rhode Island and the great-grandfather of the famous Revolutionary War traitor.”

  American history was Cam’s area of expertise. This made no sense. Life for Colonists in the late 1600s in Rhode Island was marked by frequent and sometimes fierce battles with the Indians. In fact, only a few hundred households existed in all of Rhode Island at that time. It wasn’t until the end of King Phillip’s War in 1676 that New England Colonists began to feel safe enough to settle outside the main cities. Why go to the considerable effort of building a stone structure that was of no defensive use? And if the structure was indeed a mill, why invite collapse by building it on stone pillars rather than a solid foundation? Most fundamentally, who could have afforded to employ dozens of laborers at a time when the settlers were barely able to eke out a sustenance lifestyle? American settlers built in stone only once hostilities with the natives had ended and they had stabilized their existence. He had no idea who built the Tower. But he was pretty sure it wasn’t early Rhode Island Colonists.

  He glanced around the park—an older couple inspecting the Tower, some college kids sharing a picnic lunch on a bench, a woman walking her dog. He stared at
the dog for a few seconds before refocusing on his park companions. All typical park activities. But all also good covers for a trained operative.

  He followed a paved path toward the Tower and snapped a couple of pictures. A few trees and statues dotted the park but the Tower was clearly the focal point. There was also something familiar about the Tower and yet not familiar. He relaxed his eyes, stared past the Tower but not at it. The trick worked—the Tower looked like a chess rook, cut off at its base and turned upside down. In other words, like a medieval castle on its head. He thought about a recent Harry Potter book, where the characters joined the game and became live chess pieces in order to defeat an evil enemy. He had a knight in Westford and now a rook in Newport. He, himself, felt like a pawn, a foot soldier in some larger game going on around him.

  He studied the Tower from a different angle. There was something else familiar, in addition to the rook shape, something more recent….

  He jumped and turned, reflexively, even before his brain registered the tap on his shoulder. “What?” he exclaimed. He backed away, ready to defend himself, surprised to see a woman’s face a couple of feet from his. Behind the sunglasses, under the Red Sox cap pulled low, there was, like the Tower, something familiar about her face.

  She took a single step toward him. “It’s okay. It’s just me.” She raised her hand slowly, pulled the cap from her head. A cascade of flaxen hair fell past her shoulders.

  “A-Amanda.” Her china doll complexion of yesterday was gone, replaced by a pinkish, bubbling rash on her cheeks and chin.

  “I know, I look hideous,” she sighed. “I’m allergic to the sun, like a werewolf or something—soon I’ll be fancying Piña Coladas at Trader Vic’s.”

  He smiled—he was also a Warren Zevon fan. And for some reason he didn’t find the rash particularly unattractive. “It’s just a rash, no big deal. But what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  She removed her sunglasses, her green eyes probing his. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  She waited half a beat. “Alistair McLovick is dead.”

  “What?” He rested his hand on the wrought iron fence surrounding the Tower. “I was just over at his house this morning—”

  “I know,” she interrupted, studying him. “And so do the coppers. At first they thought it might be a random home invasion. But then they found a blood glucose test strip in the woods behind his house. And they know you’re diabetic.”

  He closed his eyes. His blood on the test strip tied him directly to the crime scene. “They think I did it.”

  She nodded. “They’re trying to locate you.”

  He replayed the morning in his mind. “They probably also found my cell number on his caller ID. Nobody answered so I figured he was out.”

  “He was out all right. Somebody tied him up and clubbed him over the head. A mate found him—he was bothered when McLovick missed a meeting and didn’t answer his telephone.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  She shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

  “So who would want to kill McLovick?” He offered a wan smile. “Beside me, I mean.”

  “Likely the same people who placed the bomb in the Bobcat, and who tried to turn you into a bumper ornament for their car, and who killed your dog.”

  This made no sense. He had been sure that McLovick was the bad guy here. Now he was dead, killed by a different bad guy. Or bad guys.

  She continued. “Whoever popped McLovick’s clogs probably didn’t want him digging any more than they wanted you digging.” She paused. “And there’s a secondary benefit to killing McLovick—you getting arrested. You can’t dig if you’re in the clink.”

  “Benefit to who?”

  She took his elbow. “Look, we can discuss all this later. For now, I think we should move on. It’s not safe.”

  “Why? I’m pretty sure nobody followed me.” Then the obvious hit him. “But how did you find me?” He scanned the park.

  “If you were intent on solving this mystery, sooner or later you’d come have a look at the Tower. Probably sooner—this is the granddad of all the New England sites. Practically everyone who visits the Knight either just came from, or is journeying to, the Tower. Of course, if you killed McLovick there would be no reason for you to bother. Really, why try to solve the mystery when you’ve already avenged the crime?”

  “Good point. You can be my defense lawyer.” He turned toward the Tower. “Just give me a couple minutes to check it out.”

  “Okay, but quickly.” She gestured. “There’s a fireplace high on that wall, with two flues that vent to the outside. Opposite the fireplace is a window—a boat out in Narragansett Bay could see the fire through the window. Some folks believe the Tower was a navigational beacon.”

  “What are those notches in the stone above each of the pillars inside?”

  “Joists probably rested in them to support a second floor.” She pulled him away from the Tower. “Please, Cameron, we can chat later. It may be that they didn’t track you, but they tracked me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They know I met with you yesterday; it is possible I led them to you. I’m sorry.” She glanced at a black BMW idling along the edge of the park. The driver, alone in the car, shielded his face from them as he spoke into a cell phone. “I don’t fancy the looks of that car over there.”

  He tensed as he analyzed the situation. “If they followed you, then they haven’t seen my car yet. Let’s see if we can lose them on foot, then get my car later. I’d rather not be without wheels.” He glanced at her feet; she was wearing tennis sneakers. “Feeling fast?”

  She slipped her baseball cap back on. “I can bloody well outrun you.”

  He laughed. “It’s not me you have to worry about. It’s our friend in the BMW.”

  “Actually, you are incorrect. It’s like the bear in the woods. I don’t have to outrun the bear, I just have to outrun you. Once he catches you, he won’t give a damn about me.”

  “I see. All for one and one for all, huh?”

  “Absolutely not. The Musketeers were French. We Brits are much more practical.” They continued slowly, around the Tower but away from the BMW. “You lead the way.”

  “Okay. Hopefully he’s alone.” He tightened his fanny pack as she draped her oversized leather carrying bag over her shoulder and clenched it to her side. “I think we’re on the highest hill in town.” He remembered the map. “There’s a bunch of one-way streets and small alleys between here and the harbor—let’s head downhill and see if we can lose him.”

  They began to walk down the slope. Within seconds, the BMW’s ignition roared to life.

  They ran, Amanda matching his pace, their sneakers slapping rhythmically against the pavement. At the first intersecting street they cut right; the BMW followed, squealing around the corner, closing on them. He had a fresh memory of his encounter with the Cadillac—no doubt the driver would run them down if given the chance. He pulled Amanda to the left, down a long, narrow driveway separating two boxy, Colonial-style homes.

  A chest-high stone wall, covered in ivy, blocked their path at the end of the drive. “Be ready to climb,” he yelled. He raced ahead a few strides, preparing to stop short of the fence to aid Amanda over the top. As he slowed, Amanda flew by, leapt into the air, pushed off the top of the wall with her hands like a gymnast on a vaulting horse and propelled herself over the top.

  She landed and found her balance, turning back to smile at him. “Please hurry, won’t you? I believe the bear is in pursuit.”

  He spun his head—a man in black pants and a gray sweatshirt jumped from the car and sprinted toward them. He seemed calm, like this was a normal part of his day and he would chase them all night if need be. Cam pushed himself up, slung his legs over the wall and they raced off again, her stride and breathing mirroring his. They scampered through the yard, up another driveway which exited on the parallel street.

  �
�Follow me.” He pulled her left; a few houses later they turned left again, now heading back up the hill toward the park. At the end of a short block they turned left a third time, returning to the street where the foot chase began. The BMW, its headlights on, loomed ahead. He looked back; their pursuer had gained on them but he would not catch them before they reached the car. Cam didn’t envy him explaining to his superiors that he had left the keys in the car.

  “Jump in the passenger side.” She nodded and he sprinted ahead, skidding to a stop and sliding behind the wheel of the idling auto. As she hopped in, he reversed back a few feet and spun the wheel, gunning the engine and racing away just as their pursuer closed to within a few yards. “Duck,” he gasped. “This guy might be so desperate he takes a shot at us.”

  “Or so embarrassed,” she laughed.

  “Do you think he’s alone?” He exhaled as they turned onto an intersecting street.

  With her face flush from exertion, her rash was barely noticeable. “Yes. Likely they wouldn’t have wasted more than one bloke trailing me. But he’s probably calling for aid now. And this car may have a tracking device. We should abandon it quick as we can.”

  “Any back-up would be coming from Westford, right?”

  She shrugged. “Or perhaps Boston. The license plates are Massachusetts.”

  “Either way, we have at least an hour. I have an idea.”

  As he drove, she searched the glove compartment. She pulled out a pack of mint gum and a couple of maps. “No registration. And nothing personal.”

  He drove to a park near where he had seen a bunch of teenagers playing roller hockey on a tennis court earlier in the day. He skidded to a stop just short of the fence. “Hey, any of you guys know how to drive?”