The Templar's Code

CHAPTER 22

Caedmon opened the passenger car door. “We mustn’t tarry.”

“I know. Just a quick sneak and peek to find Lovett’s research notes. Assuming we can figure out what aqua sanctus means.” As she exited the Yaris, Edie pulled the two sides of her jean jacket closer together. Though it was early spring, there was a chill in the air. “We left the golf course about an hour ago and I’m guessing it’ll take at least that long for Rico Suave to get towed out of the sand pit.”

“Meaning we have a very narrow window.”

Edie assessed the one-story 1950s cottage set some fifty yards from the main road. Situated in the midst of a towering pine grove, it looked ridiculously small. One menacing pine, heavy with sap, was bowed in a gravity-defying arch, it limbs brazenly brushing against the asphalt shingle roof. In addition to the cottage, there were a half dozen derelict trailers scattered across the grove.

“According to the chap at the local petrol station, this is Lovett’s rental cottage,” Caedmon remarked.

As they walked along the dirt lane that served as a driveway, Edie cast a sideways glance at the nearest trailer. A rickety wood deck had been added to the front of the turquoise-blue single-wide. Overtop of that hung a faded black-and-white-striped canvas awning. She knew without being told that the interior boasted threadbare wall-to-wall carpet, chipped Formica countertops, and jalousie windows that had long since rusted shut. She knew this because when she was six years old, she and her mother lived in a trailer park outside Orlando, Florida. Her mother, Melissa, manned a ticket booth at Disney World and would frequently leave Edie unattended, unable to afford a baby-sitter. Since her only companion was a thirteen-inch-screen TV, Edie knew all the plotlines and all the characters on the daytime dramas. Given the pendulum extremes of her own life, Sesame Street bored her to tears.

Unbidden, old memories suddenly flashed across her mind’s eye. Her mother, sprawled on the trailer floor, dead from a heroin overdose, the needle still stuck in her arm. The song “Sweet Melissa” playing on the tape recorder.

Don’t leave me, Mommy. Please don’t leave me.

On autopilot, Edie’s brain hopscotched to the next chapter. The two and a half years spent on the foster care merry-go-round. The fear. The loneliness. The unthinkable abuse.

Unnerved by the flashback, Edie shook her head, flinging aside the painful memories like a wet dog shaking himself dry.

“There is a distinct noir pastorale to the environs.” Caedmon’s observation made Edie think that she wasn’t the only one creeped out by the setting.

“Is it my imagination, or are we being watched?” She glanced at the turquoise trailer.

“An innate distrust of strangers is typical in a close-knit community.”

She sidled closer to Caedmon, well aware that distrustful people tended to keep a loaded hunting rifle at the ready. “What if the police show up? After all, Lovett was murdered yesterday.”

Caedmon took hold of her elbow, assisting her up the brick steps that led to a covered stoop. “According to Dr. Lovett’s recording, he told none of his acquaintances about the rental cottage. No doubt it will be a while before the police learn of its existence.” When they reached the stoop, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a slim leather case. “I thought a lock-picking kit might come in handy.”

“Who carries a lock-picking kit with them?” She held up her hand. “Don’t answer. I think the correct response is ‘an ex-spy.’” Several months ago, Caedmon had confessed to having once worked for MI5. Other than the one brief mention, he never spoke of his prior employment.

“You will thank me for my foresight when—” He stopped in midsentence.

“What’s the matter? You’ve got a ‘something stinks in Denmark’ look on your face.”

“The front door is ajar.”

Edie examined the outer edge of the door. Sure enough, it was open a fraction of an inch. Her stomach muscles instantly cramped. “Maybe Lovett left in a hurry, forgot to lock the door, and the wind blew it open.” Even as she said it, she knew that was an unlikely scenario.

Caedmon pushed the door all the way open. Frowning, he ran his hand over the doorframe. “The wood on the jamb is splintered. Someone used brute force to enter the cottage.”

“What do you want to bet that someone drives an expensive Audi sedan?” She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly worried that she’d miscalculated how much time it would take to extricate a vehicle from a sandpit. “We have no idea if Lovett’s killer is one step behind us or one step ahead of us.”

He put a staying arm across her chest, preventing her from entering. “Remain here while I investigate.”

Not about to contest the order, she wordlessly nodded.

A braver soul than most, Caedmon stepped inside. As he disappeared into the darkened depths, Edie, arms protectively crossed over her torso, repeatedly told herself that it would have been flat-out impossible for Lovett’s killer to have beaten them to Arcadia.

When Caedmon reappeared several moments later, Edie let out a pent-up breath, unaware that she’d even been holding it. “I take it the boogeyman has vacated the premises?”

“So it would seem. I turned on all the lights and checked all the closets. But be warned, the place has been ransacked, the intruder leaving a ghastly mess in his wake.”

Bracing for the worst, Edie stepped across the threshold. Whoever trashed Jason Lovett’s cottage did so with a wild abandon; chairs, lamps, and end tables were upended, books and magazines strewn helter-skelter. Seeing a red eight-pointed star painted on the living room wall, she gasped.

A person didn’t have to be a criminal psychologist to recognize the splotch of color for what it was — an act of unrestrained violence.

“The late Jason Lovett was a man blessed with misfortune,” Caedmon said quietly. “As you’ll recall, the same symbol adorned the knife used to kill him. Blood and treasure. Throughout history, the two have walked hand in hand.”

Edie stared at the macabre graffiti, her gaze drawn to the red rivulets of color that had dripped from the points of the star. “Please don’t tell me that’s…?”

“Blood? Er, no. My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply that it was. There’s an open can of red paint in the kitchen.” Stepping over to the wall, he ran his hand over the mural. “It’s completely dry. From that we can safely deduce the artwork was created prior to Dr. Lovett’s demise.”

“Whenever it was done, it means we’re not the only ones searching for the dead archaeologist’s research notes.” Edie turned her head, nauseated by the chilling image. So eerily similar to Jason Lovett’s bloodstained shirt.

Hearing a loud rasping sound, she abruptly turned on her heel. “Oh God! He’s found—”

“It’s just the pine tree scraping against the roof,” Caedmon interjected.

“Right. I knew that.” She shakily laughed. “Steady as she goes.”

Not nearly as steady as she’d like to be, Edie followed Caedmon into the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose, the paint fumes particularly strong. At a glance she could see the paint can had been unceremoniously dumped in the sink, the brush tossed on the counter.

She gestured to the blobs of dried red paint staining the countertop. “Assuming this is Rico Suave’s handiwork, there’s a very real possibility that he found Lovett’s research notes.”

“I think not.” Caedmon opened several kitchen drawers, peering inside before closing them. “The fact that he followed us to Rhode Island belies the notion. Although clearly the man is anxious to lay his hands on Dr. Lovett’s hidden papers.”

“Overly anxious,” Edie muttered, still rattled by the earlier chase. And grateful that it hadn’t been the Yaris spinning sand. “No wonder Lovett was popping anti-anxiety pills.”

Caedmon righted an overturned trash can. “The bastard even sifted through the rubbish.”

“Leaving no Coke can unturned.” She examined the odd assortment of empty food containers scattered on the linoleum floor. Crushed aluminum soda cans. Tuna fish packed in water. Fruit cocktail packed in heavy syrup. Malt-flavored Ovaltine. “Strange diet.”

“Strange man.” Opening the refrigerator, he examined the contents. A few moments later, shaking his head, he closed the door. “Aqua sanctus… aqua sanctus. What in God’s name does it mean?”

“You said it meant holy water.”

“That’s the literal translation. But, figuratively, what does it mean?”

She shrugged, as clueless as her partner. “A dying man’s words are often nonsensical.”

“To all but the dying man.”

“Who probably took the secret to his grave,” Edie muttered, the conversation having turned morbid. “Come on. The clock is ticking. Let’s hurry up and check out the rest of this hellhole.”

Walking down the hall, they stopped at the open bathroom door. As with the kitchen, it was a mess, bottles, tubes, and containers littering the tile floor.

She plucked a pornographic magazine off the floor. “Quite the trio of contortionists,” she said, tilting her head to one side as she examined a photograph, trying to figure out which oiled body part went with which naked person. “Talk about a human pretzel. Obviously, Jason Lovett is — I mean, was—no different from most men his age, totally obsessed with sex.” She tossed the magazine into the wastebasket, the contents of which had been dumped into the sink. “Making the crucifix on the wall above the toilet a tad hypocritical.”

Hearing that, Caedmon’s red head immediately swung toward the toilet. She watched as his gaze moved from the white porcelain bowl to the slightly crooked wooden cross.

“Ohmygosh,” Edie whispered, belatedly making the connection.

Caedmon turned to her, grinning.

At the exact same moment, they both exclaimed, “Aqua sanctus!”