Dafydd glanced over and did a double take when he saw her expression. He stood up and came over to the sofa.
“What’s wrong? What did he say?” asked Dafydd.
“John,” she said. “The man who killed Nicola…he was under orders from Martin Gyles.”
Harper’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“The Martin Gyles? How is that even possible? He’s one of the foremost experts on—”
“It’s him,” she said. “He’s sent someone after us. He may already know we’re here.”
5
Thursday, June 28
Carys and Dafydd barely slept that night. They lay wrapped in each other’s bodies, wide awake. Every few minutes, Dafydd fell into a soft, rhythmic breathing, then he woke and held her tightly. She’d stare for a few moments at the ceiling, then out the window at the stars above the treetops, and then she’d listen intently for the footsteps of the killer who was coming for them. She repeated the process all night.
The previous evening, Harper, Dafydd, and she had decided, jointly, that they were as safe at the inn as they would be anywhere. Neither she nor the men could recall seeing any signs that someone was following them. There had been no strange people lurking around the place, no cars following them. Then again, they hadn’t been looking for such things until the threat became real just hours earlier. And it was likely that whomever Gyles had sent would be much better at staying hidden than they were at noticing a tail.
She suggested they leave and return to the Mattakeese when things had cooled off, but Harper refused. He wanted this done and he wanted it done immediately. She felt herself, in the darkness, growing bitter at the old man’s single-mindedness, at his willingness to sacrifice them all for his dream. But she had to admit that she agreed, in her heart, with this course of action. She wanted this done, too.
Harper had promised that as soon as he knew the location of the tomb, he would steer every one of his resources and call in every one of his law-enforcement contacts to find and punish Marshfield and Gyles. Then they’d be safe, he said, even before they publicly disclosed the location. She still hadn’t told him the truth about Frank, and didn’t intend to unless it became unavoidable.
Meanwhile, Dafydd was concerned about his own family and her father. They were all, every one of them, in danger. It was too much for her to absorb. She’d called her father the previous evening, but his phone must have been off—it was after midnight in Wales. She left him a voicemail telling him what she’d learned. She said Anthony and his family would need to stay away from their house—not going back for any reason—until it was safe.
“They know where you live, Anthony,” she said. “They followed you to me.”
When the sun came up and she could hear the innkeepers in the kitchen below starting their day, she finally drifted off for a couple of hours. Around nine, her phone rang.
“Carys,” said Anthony’s voice through the phone. “What the hell is happening?”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. And then, improbably, she began to cry. “You can’t go home. You have to keep your family safe.”
“You’re my family,” said Anthony, and she could hear that he was crying also. “Can you come back here?”
“No,” she said, “not right now. But I will soon. I promise this will be over soon.”
“There’s no way you can know that,” said Anthony.
“Please don’t go to the police yet,” she said. “We’re so close.”
Then she went downstairs to the lounge, where she could be alone to call Annie—if Gyles knew about her father, he probably knew about her best friend, and she had to warn her.
“We know who Marshfield was working for,” she said. “Plourde left me a message before he was killed in the accident. His name is Martin Gyles. He’s a famous art-world consultant. He’s behind it all. He hired Marshfield to tail us. Marshfield killed Nicola.”
“Where does Gyles live?” asked Annie, her voice hard and all business.
“London, I believe,” she said.
“I’m notifying the Wellesley police and Scotland Yard right now,” said Annie.
“No! Annie, please, we have to wait until this deal is done.”
“No, we do not have to fucking wait!” said Annie. “We’ve waited long enough, and there are six people dead.”
“I promised Harper we wouldn’t—”
“Well, I didn’t promise Harper anything,” said Annie. “It’s done. It’s happening. You can tell him or not, but it’s happening.”
“I just called you to warn you that there might be someone following you,” she said. “Plourde said Gyles probably sent someone to the U.S. to follow us.”
“If you’re trying to talk me out of calling Scotland Yard, that is a really terrible way to do it,” said Annie. “Carys, this is insanity.”
“Do what you have to,” she said finally. “I’m not going to tell Harper anything. But I know I can’t stop you.”
She hung up and, despite her protests, she felt relief wash over her that Annie had finally taken that decision out of her hands.
She and Dafydd showered, dressed, and went to breakfast, surrounded by a gaggle of tourists eagerly discussing their plans for the sunny day. Carys just stared at her eggs, sipped her coffee, and watched the front door, flinching every time it opened.
Harper didn’t come down.
After breakfast, Dafydd and Carys went back upstairs to her room. A few minutes later, a knock came on the door. Carys’s heart jumped. Dafydd got up and stood next to it.
“Who is it?”
“It’s John.”
Dafydd let him in.
“I just heard from Clark,” he said. “They want to meet us in two hours at the tribal council office.”
“Did they take the deal?” she asked. Dafydd gripped her hand tightly.
“Yes,” said Harper with a wide grin. “The Morfran manuscript in exchange for the sword and the burial site. We agree to hold off announcing the find until the recognition is approved. They get the manuscript and the trust, and they allow us access to Morfran’s journal to verify the chronology of the body’s travels.”
He put his hand on his forehead.
“I can’t believe it,” said Harper. “After all these years, today I’m finally going to see the final resting place of Riothamus Arcturus.”
Dafydd turned to her.
“There’s a sword?” he asked, his jaw slackened. “Is it…?”
“Excalibur,” she said. “You’ll be able to touch it with your own hands today.”
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
The meeting was set to begin at 1 p.m., Dafydd insisted that he be allowed to join them. Harper refused. He didn’t want to do anything that might make the tribe members more skittish or change their minds about the deal, and meeting a brand-new face at the last minute might be a deal-breaker. Dafydd was insistent. They compromised. Dafydd would stay outside with the car and keep watch in case someone showed up unannounced during the meeting.
They pulled up to the tribal offices at 12:55 p.m., and there was only one car in the driveway, a pickup truck. They all hopped out of the car, and she kissed Dafydd on the cheek.
“See you soon,” Dafydd said. “Good luck.”
She and Harper entered the tribal office. No one was in the front room.
“Hello?” yelled Harper.
“We’re back here,” said Clark.
They walked down the short hall toward the archive room. In her bag was the plastic bag containing the Morfran manuscript, as well as the monk’s manuscript and the translation. She wanted to show the tribe all the hard evidence and they deserved to see the originals. She’d left her computer back in her room. It made her smile to think that in her two-hundred-dollar tote bag, she had airtight, verifiable proof of the location of the tomb of King Ar
thur.
Clark was standing behind the desk at the far end of the archive room. Heath was the only other councilor present. He was in his ranger uniform standing stiffly, almost at attention next to the desk. She noticed his gun holster was empty.
“Sachem Clark, Mr. Heath,” said Harper. “We’re so pleased we could come to an agreement.”
Neither of them said anything. They just stood where they were.
On the right-hand wall, one of the flat, shallow filing cabinet drawers was pulled out. Carys peeked inside the drawer. There was a long, thin object about six feet long, draped in a leather cloth.
“May I?” she asked Clark. The woman barely nodded. Harper came and stood next to Carys. She reached into the drawer and, with the reverence of a priest, slowly pulled the leather aside.
She and Harper inhaled at the same instant. The blade of the sword was around four feet long and about three inches wide. Though rusted, it looked as strong and lethal as the day it was forged. Its handle was about ten inches long. It was solid and healthy, with what looked like the wear of human hands on it. At the top of the handle was a single large red stone, an enormous ruby, shining brightly as it caught the light of the room.
“Caledfwlch,” said Harper softly.
Excalibur. She hadn’t believed it was real until that very instant. She reached out her hand to touch it.
“Ah, now we’re all here,” came a voice from behind them, with a thick English accent. She and Harper pivoted around to face it. The man was tall, forties, thickly muscled, and he was standing with his back to the wall next to where they’d entered the archive room. They had walked right past him on their way in and hadn’t even seen him. Now, he was blocking the hallway back to the front office.
He was pointing a handgun with a long silencer directly at her.
She reached for Harper’s arm. He pushed her behind him, blocking her from the gun.
“Step away from that drawer,” barked the man. He looked like he’d done this a few times. He held the gun low, comfortable with its weight.
“What do you want?” asked Harper. He took a step toward the stranger.
“I’m here for what we’re all here for,” said the man. “The tomb. I just need one of you fine Indian chiefs to lead me there right now, and then we’ll be done. Simple. So which one wants to do it?”
“Go fuck yourself,” said Clark. The man’s face hardened.
He raised the pistol, aimed it at Clark, and pulled the trigger. Its bark was muffled and percussive. Blood exploded from Clark’s abdomen and a guttural exhale burst from her mouth. Clark was thrown backward against the wall, then slid down into a heap on the floor.
Carys yelped and Heath jumped back.
“I guess it’s you,” said the man to Heath, as he trained his gun on Heath’s head. Heath was bent over Clark, who was conscious and moaning. Blood flowed heavily from her gut.
“Did Gyles send you?” Carys yelled out, trying to distract him.
The man turned toward her.
“You’ve been expecting me,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “We have.”
“You certainly made it easy for me to find you,” he said.
“What do you want?” asked Harper. “I have money.”
“Oh, I know,” said the man.
“How…” Carys said meekly.
“How did we know about the tomb?” asked the man with a grin. “We know everything. I also know you’re Carys. I have specific instructions on how to deal with you.”
The blood drained out of her arms and legs.
“All of you,” barked the man. “Move to the back of the room now.”
“Why?” she yelled. “Why would he care about me?”
The man turned toward her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Heath reaching behind his back.
“You’ve been a real pain in the ass,” said the man, locking eyes with her fully. “You killed Gyles’s partner.”
Harper’s shoulders flinched.
“He tried to kill us,” she said.
“Tragic,” said the man. “Now move!”
Just then, Heath pulled back his arm, raised it, and heaved a long, bright knife at the intruder. It sailed directly at the man, and his left arm jerked. He staggered backward, the knife lodged in his chest just below his left armpit, but then he reeled around.
As if in slow motion, Harper heaved himself at the man and body-slammed him. The collision sent the two men backward with an enormous crash into one of the wood and glass display cases. It tipped over and shards of glass and artifacts scattered across the floor.
The two men wrestled, grunting and bellowing, punching, arms and legs flailing, kicking. It seemed to go on and on. Heath jumped in on top of the man and tried to grab the gun, but the man pushed him off and Heath fell backward.
Carys ran a few steps toward the melee, unsure what to do or how to help.
There was a shot.
The arms and legs continued struggling for a moment more, then stopped. The two bodies lay on the floor, and she could not tell where the bullet had landed.
She took another step forward.
The man sat up, pinning Harper underneath him. A plume of blood was expanding slowly across the front of Harper’s shirt. His mouth was agape with shock. His eyes found hers.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
In one movement, the man hopped off Harper and began moving toward Heath, blood streaming from the knife that was still lodged in him. He raised his gun, pointing it straight at Heath.
“If you kill me, you’ll never find the tomb,” said Heath.
This gave the man pause, and he took a few steps toward Heath, so that his back was mostly toward Carys. He looked down at his chest and grabbed the handle of Heath’s knife and pulled it out, hollering mightily as he did so.
Harper was on the floor, still moving, gasping for air, but bleeding so heavily that she couldn’t imagine he’d survive. A rage came over her like a wave. Her heart rate shot up, and her arms and legs grew hot.
With a speed and power she did not know she possessed, Carys grabbed the handle of the sword in the drawer. She lifted it up and ran at the man’s back, hoisting the massive piece of metal with both hands high above her head.
It was heavy, but her muscles welcomed the weight. It gave the sword momentum. Her rage powered her forward silently and she arced the sword down toward the man. Heath’s eyes glanced up at her just as the sword fell and the man began to turn.
The sword caught him full in the side of the neck and became wedged there. He spun around, but she gripped the end tightly and moved with the sword, keeping it between herself and him, knowing full well that all their lives depended on her grip.
She stared at the back of the man’s head. Blood flowed from the wound over his shoulders. He dropped his gun and reached for the blade of the sword with his hands and tried to push it off his neck. The ancient deadly edge instantly drew blood from the insides of his hands. She heard the beginnings of a scream. It quickly turned to a gurgle.
He sank to his knees, and as he did, she realized that the sword had sunk nearly halfway through his neck.
The ruby seemed to glow and throb in her hands, as if fueled by the first blood it had seen in over fifteen centuries. This mighty sword had done, once more, what it had been created to do. What it had done over and over again in the hands of the King.
Protect the innocent.
Carys marveled briefly at this weapon in her hands. At the strength it had given her. At Caledfwlch.
The man’s body crumpled into a pile, and the blood coursed from his neck onto the linoleum. She sank to the floor with him, still holding the sword in both hands, watching the red pool spread.
Soon, the pool was all she could see. Red and smooth, like a quiet, dark
sea.
Somewhere, far away, she could hear screaming. A woman’s. Maybe her own. The lights in the room grew dim.
Then it all went dark.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Carys heard movement around her, and light slowly filled her eyes. She was lying on the ground. She was wet and sticky. When she could see again, her eyes settled on the glowing red stone. She was lying in a pool of blood. Her entire left side was drenched in it. The cold reality of what she had done sent adrenaline coursing through her. She dropped the sword handle and sat upright on the floor. She scanned the room quickly and saw Heath carrying Clark’s limp form. Dafydd had Harper on his feet, but Harper wasn’t moving them and Dafydd was using all his strength to drag him toward the door. Heath’s eyes flashed at her.
“I’m bringing them to Cape Cod Hospital,” Heath said. “There’s no time to wait for the ambulance.”
She got to her feet unsteadily.
“Take the sword out and put my knife in the wound,” Heath barked. He tilted his chin down to the floor next to Carys. Heath’s knife was on the floor next to her. “Clean the sword off and take it and get out of here. We can’t let the police find it.”
Clark looked pale, and her lips were already blue. Harper grunted next to Dafydd.
“I’ll be right back, Carys,” Dafydd said. “I’ll come with you. Just hang on.”
She heard the front door slam shut behind them.
Then it was silent. She was alone in the room with the body of the Englishman. She looked at her hands. They’d managed to remain clean, even though her left sleeve was bloody. A story began to take shape in her mind.
Heath had stabbed the intruder, who had shot Harper and Clark. It had been a robbery gone wrong, and Heath had saved them all. Heath was a ranger. Harper was a billionaire philanthropist. The cops would believe their story. The police wouldn’t investigate the specifics of the Englishman’s death—or the weapon used—with such respectable witnesses testifying to their version of the truth. It was a small town.
The Ghost Manuscript Page 38