Cam smiled. “Gull with a broken wing. I like that—it’s exactly the way someone would describe a sailboat if they had never seen one. So you think Sinclair built the Tower?”
“No. I happen to believe it was built as a memorial to him. He was an phenomenally important chap during his time—an earl of Scotland and a prince of Norway—yet there is no tombstone or marker or even record of his death in Europe.”
“Nothing?”
“No. In fact, his lands and title never passed to his son; after a number of decades they eventually passed directly to his grandson. It’s as if his family didn’t know if he was still alive or not. That makes me surmise he died in America. The Tower would be an appropriate monument to a man of his importance.”
“Why would his family not have known of his death? I mean, once he found his way over, didn’t others go back and forth as well?”
“Soon after Prince Henry left for America, England attacked Scotland. Any ships that may have been used to explore were needed for the war. Or were lost in battle.”
He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. “Remember when I asked you whether you believed in the Prince Henry legend and you told me it didn’t matter whether it was true or not, only that people believed it was true?”
“Rather brilliant of me, was it not?” She fluffed her white-blond hair.
He couldn’t help but grin. “Yes, brilliant. So brilliant that I’m going to steal it and argue that it doesn’t really matter if Sinclair built the Tower, or if it’s a monument to him, or if he had nothing to do with it at all. What matters is that someone believes the Knight and the Tower and the Boat Stone and who knows what else are related to some kind of treasure. In order to understand what they’re after, and figure out who they are, we need to know all we can about all these sites. Both fact and myth.”
She settled back in her seat. “Sounds like a road trip then. As I said, drive toward Maine.” She held up a plastic shopping bag. “I’m ready to go—I picked up some clothes and a toothbrush while I was waiting for you.”
Smiling at the prospect of a day or two alone in the car with Amanda, he shifted to the left lane and accelerated. “How far up in Maine?”
“Near Augusta.”
“Easy enough. Straight up the turnpike.”
“I want to show you the Spirit Pond Rune Stones. Here’s a surprise—the experts believe they are fake.”
“Speaking of the experts, did I tell you I spoke to the Massachusetts state archeologist?”
“How fortunate.”
“I guess you know her, huh?”
“Rhonda Blank. I’ve had me own history with her. We call her Blinky Blank. Whenever she is asked to consider a pre-Columbus artifact, she closes her eyes—you know, those long blinks that make you think she might be napping—and shakes her head. As if she doesn’t want to see the evidence.”
He smiled, remembering Claude’s eye-closing tendency. Apparently it did run in the family. “Well, she said the Knight was carved by some neighborhood boys in the late 1800s as a prank.”
“The Fisher lads. It’s a fine story—there were four of them and they lived nearby. But the facts don’t add up. There’s a reference to the carving in a town history publication that dates back to the year the oldest boy was born. It’s impossible for them to have carved the effigy.”
“As we say in the law, why let the facts get in the way of a perfectly good story?”
“The Fisher lads did add a peace pipe to the carving, which is how the story began. But it’s a simple matter to distinguish between the pipe and the rest of the Knight. Unless you close your eyes like Blinky Blank.”
“So what’s her problem?”
“Many archeologists have staked their professional reputations on certain truisms. For example, that Columbus discovered America. The last thing they want is for new evidence to appear that contradicts them. So they just stick their heads in the sand.”
“Speaking of new evidence, the Gendrons found a clay lantern in their backyard that looks a lot like the Newport Tower. I just noticed the resemblance when I went to pick up the car.”
“It resembles the Tower? Do you reckon that’s what McLovick was looking for?”
“I did.” He smiled. “But then I thought I’d been watching too many movies.”
“Well, either way, I’d fancy having it carbon-dated. But even if the testing dated it circa 1400, the mainstream archeologists would argue it was brought over from Europe by the Colonists. It’s tragic, really. They’re supposed to be academics. Yet they refuse to even consider that some of these artifacts might be more than hoaxes.”
“Tell that to Brandon. Someone thinks this stuff is pretty real.”
“Yes, poor Brandon. You can judge the Spirit Pond Rune Stones for yourself. I’ve only seen them once. Looked pretty bloody authentic to me.”
He made sure there was plenty of room between the Subaru and the car in front of them before turning to her. “That’s why I want to figure this all out and catch those S.O.B.s.”
He dialed Brandon’s cell, explaining to her that Brandon was helping with internet research. “And this phone is untraceable.”
On the third ring Brandon picked up. “Hello Cameron.” But it wasn’t Brandon.
He considered hanging up; instead he signaled Amanda to stay quiet. “Lieutenant Poulos. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised to hear your voice.”
“Call me back on the cell number I gave you.”
He redialed, appreciative of the policeman’s caution. “Listen, Cam, you need to come back to Westford. You need to answer some questions.”
“Look, Lieutenant. I had nothing to do with McLovick’s death. I think you know that.” No response. “Anyway, I can’t come back until I figure this all out.”
“That’s our job.”
“With all due respect, we’ve got one guy maimed and another one dead. Plus a dead dog and I’ve almost been killed myself. Twice.”
“Twice?”
“Yeah, I had another footrace with a car today. It’s getting a little tiring, to be honest.”
“That’s why you need to come in.”
He took a deep breath. “Look, there’s some really strange, complicated stuff going on. And I don’t mean to say I’m smarter than you guys. But we need to figure out the motive here before we have any chance of catching these guys and I’m starting to put it all together. But I can’t do that if I’m holed up in some police station giving statements and answering questions.”
“I told my captain you’d probably say something like that. He said it sounded like O.J. Simpson.”
“You know, that’s bullshit. I’m not out on some golf course. I’m out here, now, dodging cars and trying to figure this all out. So cut the O.J. crap, all right?”
“Easy, son. It wasn’t me that said it.”
“That’s bullshit also. You’d didn’t have to repeat it. You said it to get a reaction out of me.”
Poulos remained silent.
Cam took a deep breath; the officer was just doing his job. “What about you guys? You have any leads? Maybe some partner trying to take the treasure for himself?”
More silence.
“All right then. I’m not coming in just so somebody can hold a press conference and say they’re making progress on the case.”
Cam waited through a long pause. “Officially, I have to tell you that you’re making a mistake,” Poulos finally said. “Unofficially, I have a message to pass on to you: Monsignor Marcotte says he has some information that will help you.” Cam scribbled down Marcotte’s contact information on a scrap of paper. “And be careful, Cameron.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” He gave Poulos the license plate number of the BMW. “Maybe that’s a lead you can use.”
Brandon’s voice came over the phone. “I’ll call you back.”
Five minutes later, Cam’s TracFone rang. “I’m calling from my new phone.” Brandon gave Cam the number. “Poulos is gone. He was here abou
t an hour, waiting for you to call.” Brandon seemed stronger, more energized. “He noticed some of the books lying around here, stuff my parents brought in.”
“That’s fine—it’s no secret this somehow relates to Prince Henry and the Templars. But do me a favor. Every time you’re done with an internet search, run the disk cleanup function on your laptop. That’ll delete the cookies and the web page history so nobody will know what sites you’ve been on.” That wasn’t totally true—the information could still be recovered. But not quickly. “So are you alone?”
“My dad’s here. And Poulos left a guy outside my door. For my protection, he said.”
“Probably not a bad idea. Anyway, I need to know what you can find about the Spirit Pond Rune Stones, up in Maine.”
“Got it. And my dad wants to talk to you.”
Peter skipped the pleasantries. “I’ve been looking into this Westford Knight carving. It’s all a hoax, Cameron. Some kids carved it in the late 1800s. The Fisher boys, they lived up the street.”
Cam explained the reference in the town history. “Unless they crawled out of their crib with an ice pick, they didn’t do it.”
“Well, that doesn’t make it authentic. And I don’t see the Knight and the shield. All I see is a sword. Everything else is worn away.”
“You saw the old pictures in the library. But it doesn’t really matter—it’s still a medieval battle sword punched into a rock ledge. Amanda said they had a weapons expert in England study it—the proportions are perfect. How would some farmer know what a medieval sword looked like? And why would he carve it into the rock even if he did?”
Peter plowed ahead. “And this Boat Stone thing, these numbers 1-8-4, that’s just a date. It’s a trail marker from 1840-something.”
“Nice theory but where’s the fourth number?” He took a deep breath. “If the numbers were 1-3-9 and I told you that meant it was 1390-something but they forgot the last number, you’d tell me I was full of shit. And you’d be right. More to the point, why would someone in the 1840s carve a medieval boat and medieval crossbow arrow onto a stone? Why not carve a schooner and a musket?”
“I don’t know. People do crazy things.”
“I don’t know either. But at least I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Welcome to my world,” Amanda said as he hung up. “Nobody wants to look at this with an open mind. Folks like Rhonda Blank say we have no evidence. Well, what about the artifacts themselves? Aren’t they evidence? We shipped the Boat Stone out to a forensic geologist in Minnesota—he concluded that the weathering patterns in the carvings were consistent with a 600-year-old artifact. Isn’t that evidence?” She sighed. “Sorry to grizzle—it’s just a bit frustrating oftentimes.”
“Don’t let Peter’s opinion bother you. He’s not exactly open-minded. My dad really had to strong-arm him into giving me a job—he thinks I’m a loose cannon.”
Amanda chewed on her lip as her eyes darkened and narrowed. “Speaking of your job, I have a confession to make. I don’t reckon you’re going to be too pleased with me.” She took a deep breath. “The Consortium performed a background check on you. Now I feel like I’m privy to private matters about you that I have no right to know.”
It wasn’t like he was a sex offender or anything. “So you know I’m a diabetic, and you know I got suspended by the Bar Association, and you probably know I used to drink too much.” He smiled. “But I’m really not that interesting. So no big deal.”
“Thanks. Some folks would be all bothered by it. Actually, there is one other thing I learned: You are part of the Rex Deus bloodline.”
He turned, expecting to see Amanda’s straight white teeth grinning back at him. But her expression was flat. “You serious?”
“Yes. Your mother’s maiden name is Kahn. She is a Cohen.”
As a child, in the synagogue with his mother and her family, Grandpa Morey was always called to read from the Torah first, before the other men in the congregation. His mother had explained that since Cohens descended from Aaron, who was the brother of Moses and the first high priest, the tradition was to call a Cohen first to the Torah.
“Well, in that case, I take back all that stuff I said about royal bloodlines not mattering. Do I get to wear a crown or something?”
She cuffed him on the shoulder.
“Seriously, what difference does it make?” he asked.
“Well, for one thing, the Consortium is convinced that only someone with Rex Deus blood is worthy of figuring out the Prince Henry mystery and finally proving the legend is fact.”
“Great. But they also may be the ones trying to kill me.”
“I’ve been pondering that. I don’t see why they wouldn’t want you to succeed.”
“Like you said, there’s a lot about this Consortium that you don’t know.”
“They don’t know I’m here with you—I just went off without informing anyone.” She fiddled with her cell phone. “I was reckoning I should ring in, perhaps ask for their aid. But I’m hesitant.”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m not inclined to trust them.” He smiled. “Even if they are my distant cousins.”
“All right then, I won’t ring them.” She dropped her phone in her bag. “Now what’s all this about your law license being suspended? From what I read, they should have given you a promotion, not suspended you.”
A rest area loomed in the distance. He hadn’t eaten dinner yet and he was beginning to feel a bit shaky. “Let’s eat first, then I’ll tell you the whole story. I hope you like fast food.”
“My goodness, Papa Gino’s and McDonald’s. Fine dining.”
“Hey, you can get anything on the menu. Either place. My treat.”
They each grabbed a chicken fillet sandwich and a wilted salad and sat at a booth looking out at the gas pumps in front. He was just about to visit the men’s room when a BMW sedan—this one gray—pulled to a stop in the fire lane in front of the restaurant. Two muscular, stern-faced men jumped from the car. “Amanda, shield your face but check out those guys.”
“They look like they were cut from the same cloth as that bloke in Newport. Think they remembered their keys?”
One of the men circled around to the side door while the other guarded the front. “Your cell phone, how old is it?”
“Brand new. Why?”
“The new ones have a built-in tracking device. You know, in case of emergency so they can find you.”
She looked down. “But my phone is off.”
“Believe it or not, it still tracks.” He had just read a law case where the FBI was able to hack into a Mafia cell phone and use it as a transmitter, even when the power was off. If the people tracking them had someone working at the cell phone company, someone with access to the company’s computers, they could track them using Amanda’s cell. “They know we’re here someplace but I think they can only track to a general location.” But they would have no trouble spotting Amanda’s white-blond hair. “Quick, go to the ladies’ room.”
“Should I lose the phone?”
“No, not yet.”
As she circled away from the front entrance to the restrooms, he positioned himself in the middle of the dining area so that he could see both the front and side doors. Fortunately a tour bus had just pulled in and the restaurant was packed. The henchman at the side door entered and jabbed at his phone. His partner in the front answered on the first ring before hanging up and dialing another number. While he spoke he punched at the controls of what looked like a handheld GPS device. Someone was giving him the coordinates of Amanda’s phone. The thug scanned the room, probably looking for Amanda. Or listening for her British accent. Cam knew he didn’t have much time.
An employee, probably called suddenly to help at the counter with the tour bus rush, had left a bucket and mop leaning against a wall near a garbage can. Cam ducked his head and strode over to it. Sometimes the best place to hide was in plain view. Pulling the mop out, he began to cl
ean the floor in short, sweeping motions. He took a deep breath and called out in a loud monotone, imitating as best he could the voice of someone with a mental impairment. “Excuse me, excuse me. I need to mop the floors. I need to mop the floors. Excuse me.” In his path, customers turned away in embarrassment and discomfort as each stroke brought him closer to the restrooms. He called out loudly again, his head down. “Excuse me. I need to mop the floors. Excuse me.” He passed within a few feet of the thug by the side door, resisting the urge to splash the man’s shoes. A few seconds later he pulled the wheeled bucket into the small hallway that accessed the restrooms.
Rapping on the ladies’ room door, he kept his voice loud and flat. “Excuse me. Excuse me. I need to mop the floors.”
He didn’t wait for a response, praying that Amanda would not call out. He pushed the door open and closed it quickly behind him. “Damn,” he whispered. “No lock.”
Amanda poked her head out from inside a stall. “If there had been, don’t you think I’d have locked you out?”
“Good point.” He liked that she hadn’t panicked. “Quick, give me your phone. Stay here.” He stuffed the phone into his pocket, wheeled the mop and bucket back into the dining area and continued his charade. “Excuse me. Excuse me. I need to mop the floors.” The operatives were now wandering through the restaurant, inspecting the diners, their faces reddening in frustration. It would not be long before they checked the restrooms.
He mopped his way out the front door of the restaurant and, making sure he was out of sight, began sprinting toward the car service area. As he reached the gas pumps a small dump truck began to pull away. He raced aside the truck, tossed the phone onto a pile of bark mulch and watched it nestle itself deep into its new home. He jogged back toward the service garage and crouched low behind a van parked next to the air hose.
His heart pounding in his ears, he peered out. Either the thugs would be monitoring the GPS device and race to follow the now-moving beacon or they were on the verge of crashing through the ladies’ room door in search of Amanda. If the latter, there was nothing he could do to help her….
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 12