Templar's Code

CHAPTER 8

“Somebody! Quick! I need a doctor!” Edie Miller hollered, dropping to her knees and scrambling across the downed projection screen to reach Jason Lovett’s side.

Oh God. Is Caedmon really chasing a cold-blooded murderer? What if the killer has a gun? Or another knife? Or is a martial arts—

Caedmon is okay, she silently affirmed. He’d been trained as a spy. Which meant he knew how to handle himself in a dangerous situation.

A paunchy middle-aged man rushed into the reading room.

Edie didn’t know if it was the blood, the sprawled body, or the jeweled knife hilt, but the first responder skidded to an abrupt halt, his cell phone limply plastered against his cheek. “What the—!”

“Stop gawking and start dialing! Tell the emergency operator that a man’s been stabbed at the House of the Temple on Sixteenth Street,” she instructed, having made the assumption that, like most people caught up in an emergency, his brain just turned to mush. Then, hoping to avert yet another catastrophe, she said, “After you make the call, I need you to corral everyone into the banquet hall until the police arrive. The killer is still on the loose.”

The man’s shock instantly morphed into visible fear. “But I . . . I’ve got a w-wife and two k-kids. Why do I have to be hall monitor?”

“Just do it!” Edie screeched, on the verge of lurching to her feet and delivering a heavy-handed slap to his face. “If this man dies, it’ll be on your head!”

The guilt trip worked; the man was jabbing away at his cell phone as he spun on his heel and ran out the door.

Just then, Jason Lovett, amazingly still conscious, rolled from his stomach to his side. The movement cost him, the archaeologist gasping for breath.

“Can I get you anything?” Belatedly realizing it was a stupid question, Edie brushed a hank of blond hair away from his face.

His hair was so soft. Baby fine. Maybe because he was just that, a baby. Somebody’s baby. A mother’s beloved son.

Her eyes welling with tears, Edie placed her hand against Lovett’s flushed cheek, willing him to stay alive.

Staring at her with a pain-racked expression, he found the strength to weakly whisper, “Aqua sanctus . . . aqua sanctus.”

“I . . . I don’t speak Latin,” she sputtered, not even sure that was the right language. “You need to—Of course! Aqua means water. You want a drink of water.”

Relieved that she’d correctly interpreted the request, she leaned forward, snatching Caedmon’s water bottle from the table. Hands trembling, she uncapped the bottle. Then, gently lifting Jason Lovett’s head, she placed the bottle to his lips.

Tersely shaking his head, he slapped the bottle out of her hand, splashing water down the front of his chest. “Aqua sanctus!” he hissed, this time more urgently.

“Which means nothing to me. Caedmon’s the one who speaks Latin.”

“You have to—” Grimacing, Lovett fumbled with a Velcro flap on his cargo pants.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, afraid he might cause greater harm. If such a thing was possible.

Lovett ignored the order, grunting as he ripped open the flap and shoved his hand into his pants pocket. A prescription bottle plunked loose, rolling a few inches on the parquet floor. Edie glanced at the label. Xanax. An antidepressant. Jason Lovett liked to pop pharm candy.

“The ambulance is on the way,” she told him, wondering how much longer Lovett could hold out. “We’ll have you at GW Hospital in a jiffy. It’s a straight shot down New Hampshire Avenue. Won’t take but a few minutes to get there.”

Again, Lovett fumbled with the flap on his cargo pants. Wincing, he raised himself up slightly, struggling to remove something from his pocket.

Edie reached over to help him—only to jerk backward when she saw the glint of a gun.