Templar's Code

CHAPTER 39

“Do you want to live?” the rifleman inquired.

Edie’s jaw slackened, disbelief trumping fear. “That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

“Yes, we want to live,” Caedmon answered. He stepped forward, his right hand extended. “Tonto Sinclair, I presume?”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t Dr. Livingstone.” The pony-tailed Native American, whom Edie placed in his early sixties, tipped the rifle skyward. To her relief, he flipped on the safety. Still scowling, he stared at Caedmon’s proffered hand. Rather than take it, he shrugged out of his brown flannel jacket and flung it at Caedmon’s chest. “Leech the lead from your asses. He’ll soon be on the hunt.”

Edie assumed that their “guide” referred to Rico Suave.

“Put out the flame, did he?” Caedmon handed her the jacket, silently mouthing the words Put it on.

The other man shrugged. “You only singed him. He’ll live.”

“Pity.” Caedmon gallantly swept his arm, drops of water plopping to the ground as he did so. “By all means, lead the way.”

Grateful, Edie donned the jacket, toasty warm from Tonto Sinclair’s body heat. Peering at their guide, she noticed the faded tattoo that ran across the knuckles of both his hands—red-blooded. That’s how Caedmon correctly deduced Sinclair’s identity; Jason Lovett had mentioned the tattoo in his digital voice recording.

The three of them, Sinclair on point, she and Caedmon pulling up the rear, headed due east, their pace brisk. Edie kept her eyes glued on the rifle.

They hadn’t gone far when Sinclair veered to the right, heading toward a path bordered by towering trees. She realized they were traipsing along an abandoned logging road, the parallel ruts discernible through the overgrown foliage. The afternoon sun, shining through the leafless hardwoods, cast filigree shadows.

“How does your arm feel?” Edie worriedly asked; Caedmon had yet to utter a single complaint.

“Not quite in the pink, but I shall soldier on.”

“No stiff-upper-lip clichés. How do you really feel?”

“Hurts like hell.” Caedmon glanced at the makeshift bandage, grimacing. “If I could, I’d trade my whole kingdom for a handful of aspirin.”

“Maybe we can get”—she glanced at their guide’s backside, not exactly sure what to call him—“Mister Sinclair to take us to the nearest emergency room. You really should have your arm examined by a doctor.”

“Rather difficult injury to explain away.”

“Tell ’em you were accidentally shot by an off-season bow hunter,” Tonto Sinclair said. The remark was issued without so much as a backward glance.

“Inventive but believable,” Edie seconded, thinking it a pretty good lie. “And while we’re at it, maybe we should contact the police. To inform them that a lunatic armed with a bow and arrow is on the loose.”

“Bad idea.” This time Sinclair turned his head a few inches, almost acknowledging them.

“Are you aware of the fact that two days ago the lunatic in question killed Jason Lovett?”

“Lovett knew the risks when he uncovered that mass grave.” Sinclair punctuated the callous remark with an unconcerned shrug. “What can I say? A fool and his gold.”

Are soon parted. Or dearly departed as the case may be.

Lengthening his stride, Caedmon came abreast of their guide. “According to Dr. Lovett, the treasure consists of a fortune in gold bouillon. Covetous, he might have been, but the man was no fool.”

This time, Tonto Sinclair actually swiveled his head in their direction. For what seemed like an interminable length of time, he silently scrutinized them. While Edie knew it was impossible, it felt like the Indian was peering into her very soul.

“There is no gold bouillon.”

Hearing that, Edie’s jaw dropped. “So why did you purposefully mislead Jason Lovett into thinking there was a monetary treasure trove buried in Arcadia?”

The question got their guide’s attention. Sinclair came to a complete standstill.

“For five hundred years the white man has fucked my people.” The Indian’s voice lowered to a guttural rumble. “I needed the scrawny shit to help me find Yawgoog’s treasure. It’s called payback.”

There was no gold, but there was a treasure.

Edie turned to Caedmon, bewildered. “Am I missing something?”

“Indeed, Mister Sinclair’s remark begs the question, what exactly is Yawgoog’s treasure?”

The begged question elicited another drawn-out silence.

“Yawgoog entrusted my people with his sacred stone,” Sinclair said at last. “That’s the treasure.”

What? Edie shook her head, wondering if she had heard correctly.

“A stone . . . how curious.” Caedmon didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Or even disappointed for that matter.

“Earlier today we found a carved stone with a Templar Beauséant,” Edie said, still grappling with the notion that someone just tried to kill them because of a rock. “I thought that was Yawgoog’s Stone.”

Sinclair shook his head. “That’s what I told Jason Lovett, but that’s not Yawgoog’s sacred stone. Before Yawgoog died, he entrusted his sacred stone to the Narragansett. And we did a pretty damned good job of minding the store—until the white man showed up and stole it from us.”

Given the way Tonto glared at them, Edie had the unnerving feeling that he was personally holding them accountable for the centuries-old theft.

“You know, a description of this stone would be nice,” she shot back, peeved. “Are we talking about your garden-variety rock? Or some kind of polished pebble?”

“According to the legends of my people, the sacred stone is the size of a flat grinding mortar.” Moving his hands slightly, Tonto indicated dimensions comparable to a large dictionary.

Which meant that Yawgoog’s Stone would have perfectly fit into the empty niche that she and Caedmon discovered in the Templar sanctuary.

“Because we failed to keep our promise to Yawgoog, the Narragansett paid with their blood. And will continue to pay until the sacred stone is returned to us.” Sinclair took a menacing step in their direction, his scowl deepening. “So I’m only going to ask you this one time: Did you find the sacred stone?”

The air fairly crackled with hostile intent. Edie fearfully glanced at Caedmon, wondering if he was aware that the finger emblazoned with a blue O now hovered over the trigger.

“We did not find the sacred stone. Although you may be interested to know that we discovered Yawgoog’s cave, the entrance of which is located behind the falls that course over the stone bridge. The cave, however, was empty,” Caedmon quickly clarified. “That said, do exercise caution if you’re of a mind to explore. There are deadly traps concealed throughout.”

“Thanks for the update. Guess that means I won’t be shooting the two of you in the head and burying the bodies in a shallow grave.” One side of Sinclair’s mouth twitched. The ghost of a very sick smile. Turning his back on them, he continued walking.

“Disappointed does not even begin to explain how I feel right now,” Edie hissed in a lowered voice. “In the last two minutes, we’ve gone from a treasure worth a hundred billion dollars to a simple stone.”

“A sacred stone,” Caedmon quietly emphasized. “And I doubt there is anything simple about it. Several hundred Templar descendants were massacred on account of this stone. Moreover, the sacred stone may have led to their forbears’ demise at the hands of the Inquisition.”

“Do you think Rico Suave knows that the fabled Templar treasure trove is just an old stone?”

“A sacred stone,” he again reiterated. “And I have no idea what our assailant knows or doesn’t know.”

“You keep using the word sacred. Do you mean sacred like the Ten Commandments?” she asked, wondering why he kept harping on that particular attribute.

“Possibly.” No sooner did he say it than Caedmon shook his head. “While the Ten Commandments were carved onto stone tablets, Sinclair is adamant that Yawgoog had only one stone, not two.”

“And what about Sir Walter Ralegh? Still convinced he took Yawgoog’s Stone to London?”

“Oh, yes,” he quietly avowed, blue eyes glimmering.

“I noticed you didn’t volunteer that tidbit to our gun-toting guide.”

“While the purpose of Yawgoog’s sacred stone is still a mystery, any number of men have killed to possess it.”

A dire thought. One that she preferred not to dwell on. Luckily, they had strict gun laws in the United Kingdom.

Up ahead, Edie caught sight of a beat-up truck. The blue jalopy had to have been at least thirty years old. And, no surprise, there was a gun rack mounted to the back window.

Caedmon caught up to their guide. “Our vehicle is parked near the eastern border of the wilderness area,” he said, diplomatically requesting a lift.

“Somebody slashed the tires on your little piece of Japanese crap.”

Edie groaned. She had a pretty good idea who wielded the knife.

“Not entirely unexpected,” Caedmon said calmly, taking the news in stride. “I’ll need to get some items out of the boot.” He cleared his throat, giving Sinclair ample opportunity to offer them a ride. When no invitation was forthcoming, Caedmon, a tight smile on his lips, said, “Would it be too much of an inconvenience to drive Miss Miller and me to the airport at Providence?”

Sinclair pulled his car keys out his pocket. “You paying for the gas?”