The Cleric's Vault

THE

CLERIC’S

VAULT

ERNEST DEMPSEY

The Cleric’s Vault is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

Copyright
© 2012 Ernest Dempsey

All
rights reserved.

ISBN:
978-0-9887072-3-8

ISBN-13:
978-0-9887072-3-8

What readers are saying about
Ernest Dempsey.

“I love the pace.
 
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stuff that I never knew before.”

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Dempsey to hurry up and write the next one!”

“Finally, a writer who doesn’t get bogged down in
too much description and character development.
 
Just give me a fun story to read.
 
Dempsey does that perfectly.”

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I hope Ernest Dempsey gives each
character their own book.”

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it twice.
 
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next one.”

Other Books by Ernest Dempsey:

The Secret of the Stones

The Lost Canvas

Visit www.ernestdempsey.net

For my sweet Megan.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to the librarians at Dalton High School
for all your support and friendship through the years.
 
A special thank you goes out to my
editors:
 
Madonna Fajardo Kemp,
Susie McClarty, and Billie Moehn.
 
I’m also extremely grateful for my awesome design consultant, Lori Wilson,
for helping create the cover of the book.
 

And
the LORD God said, "The man has now become like one of us, knowing good
and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the
tree of life and eat, and live forever."

Genesis 3:22

Prologue

Cuenca, Ecuador

1982

“Padre,
donde esta la chiave?”
 

The
young priest rushed his words in Spanish, standing over a bed of plain white
linens.
 
An awkward look of
desperation covered his face.
 
He’d
been trying to comfort the older man, who lay there dying, with words from
standard prayers and parts of scripture.
 
His efforts though, were clearly halfhearted, a way of going through the
motions.

The
question about the location of the key betrayed why he was really there.

A
pale half-moon seeped through the few clouds that dotted the night sky and cast
an eerie glow into the small dormitory.
 
The air was cool and somewhat soothing.
 

Carlos
Crespi was racked with fits of coughing that shook his rickety, metal bed.
 
The old man was sure the end was near
but uncertain of the moment.
 
He
clutched the bed sheets with a firm grip, fighting away the creeping pain that
seemed to grow incrementally with every passing moment.
 

His
bald forehead was wrinkled from the struggle with death, his bushy gray eyebrows
furrowed in a combination of frustration and agony.
 
The once jovial, dark eyes squinted against the pain.

The
young apprentice watched with a stoic face as he continued repeating the
prescribed lines, reaffirming that the padre would be assured eternal life in
heaven. The dying man knew the words were simply a formality to rub him into
give up his secret.

Father
Carlos was no fool.
 
He knew the
real reason why this eager young man had been sent to his aide six months
prior.
 
His constant and pressing
questions about the vault gave that motive away far too easily.
 
He had taken the young priest to the
vault only one time.
 
When he had
turned on the single light in the storage room, the man’s eyes had betrayed his
real intent.
 

The
collection.

For
years the Vatican had tried to peel away the secrets of Padre Crespi’s
mysterious vault.
 
Somehow, they’d
always come up empty.
 
Revered by
the locals,
 
the old man had given
them nearly his entire life in service.
 
And in return, they watched out for him and the antiquities they had
gifted him.
 
Whenever outsiders
would ask the people where he had gotten such wondrous relics, they simply
replied, “the forest.” Now, though, on death’s door, the old priest would surely
have to pass on his treasures to someone.
 
After all, he couldn’t take them with him.

Another
fit of coughs racked him and the bed shook violently.
 
The young priest reached down to brace the crude, metal
frame that squeaked loudly with each movement.
 
When the coughing ceased, he could hear a rattle in Father
Carlos’ chest.
 
It wouldn’t be long
now.
 
And he needed an answer.
 

“Padre,
I beg of you, where is the key to your vault?
 
It must be preserved in the name of the church, for the
glory of God.”
 
The heightened
desperation filled the man’s voice.
 
He was afraid what would happen if Crespi did not bestow the key to
him.
 

Two
other monks stood by the door, pesky witnesses that would prevent him from
simply breaking into the vault and taking what he believed rightly belonged to
the Vatican.

The
sentence seemed to snap Crespi out of unconsciousness and his eyes opened
slowly, to narrow slits.
 
He lay
very still and turned his head towards the young man, gazing at him with a
curious look.
 
“The glory of God?”
he asked.

The
young priest nodded.
 
“Si,
father.
 
For the Church and God.”
Father Carlos laughed, careful not to arouse another round of coughs.
 
Then he smiled a gentle smile that the
entire city knew so well.
 
“I’ll
give you my key,” he hesitated.
 
“But you must carry this message to the church.”

“Of
course,” the young priest said and smiled at the old man.
 
“Whatever you ask.”
 

The
coughs returned violently and a thin red line eased its way out of the corner
of Crespi’s mouth.
 
His eyes went
wide momentarily then he laid his head back down on the pillow.

“Father,
tell me your message,” the apprentice urged.

Crespi
looked at him again and slid a frail hand inside the tattered brown garment he
wore.
 
A second later, he produced
a simple key.
 
The long piece of
brass had an odd design on the end, what appeared to be a spider inside a
circle.
 
As the assistant reached
for the key, Father Carlos grabbed him with his other hand and with surprising
strength and pulled him close.

“The
treasures of the kingdom are for the righteous,” he paused, raising the
strength to finish his message.
 
“The lights shall guide them as beacons in the darkness.
 
Only the righteous shall eat of the
tree of life.”

A
sickly rattle came from deep within the padre’s chest.
 
He released his grip and eased back
into the bed, unconscious.
 

The
young priest looked down at the man and placed his hand under Crespi’s
nostrils.
 

Still breathing but not for long.
 
What did the message mean?
 
He didn’t care.
 
He had
the key and access to all of the fabled wealth that the old man had been
hoarding for years.
 
It had been
given willingly and the two Ecuadorian monks would bear witness.

He
would certainly make sure the Vatican received most of the wares.
 
Would
anyone notice if a few pieces went missing?
 
The young man doubted it.

Satisfied
that the sick padre was unaware, he slipped out of the room and into a dark
hallway lit with a few candles along the walls.
 
The black iron candle holders were covered in wax that could
have been from a decade before.

Another
nurse was waiting outside and glanced questioningly at the young priest.
 
He simply shook his head and walked by
quickly.

He
made his way through the labyrinth of halls and portals until he found himself
in a courtyard in the center of the monastery grounds.
 
Directly in front of him was a large,
wooden door.
 
He’d seen the
enormous door many times and had asked Father Carlos to show him what was
within but the older man had refused every time, save for once.
 
The only time he’d been allowed to see
the vast treasure was for mere minutes.
 
Now he had it all to himself.

He
rushed over to the door and slid the key into a large, silver-looking
lock.
 
A quick look around
confirmed no one was watching.
 
He’d suspected as much at this hour of the evening.
 
The few monks that helped run the
modest compound had retired for the night hours ago, except for the two in the
room with Crespi.
 

With
a quick twist of the wrist, the inner workings of the lock were undone.
 
He tugged on the old, metal handle,
swinging the large door out slowly.

The
inside of the room was dark with no windows to provide any sort of
illumination.
 
Fortunately, he’d
prepared for that contingency.
 
His
hand removed a small flashlight from within his robes and he switched it on,
ready to take in the majesty of the vast treasure of Father Carlos Crespi.
 
Instead, he was greeted by a vacuous
chamber of empty wooden shelves, cobwebs, and dust.

The
vault was empty.
 
Impossible.
 
Where was the gold, all the ancient relics?
 
The young man ran his hands along
the empty shelves and searched the entire room for several minutes.
 
He found nothing.

Suddenly,
bells began to ring from the top of the chapel on the other side of the
courtyard.
 
The dinging sound
echoed through the sleepy city as dark clouds moved across the face of the moon
once again.
 
Carlos Crespi was
dead.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Las Vegas, Nevada

Present

“I’m
all in.”

Sean
Wyatt stared across at the opponent.
 
Sean’s icy gray eyes were calm, almost matter-of-fact in their
appearance.
 
He pushed all of his
chips across the rounded line on the green felt of the poker table.

He
was a terrible bluffer.
 
A fact
he’d recounted many times throughout his life in work and with women.
 
He didn’t like bluffing when playing
cards either.
 
Fortunately, at the
moment he knew he had the best hand.

The
other man, young and reckless, had bet twice.
 
Now, he looked uncertain.
 
Sean thought the he’d seemed a little nervous since the
moment the kid sat down at the table.
 

It
was day two of the $1000 dollar buy-in poker tournament at The Rio and clearly
the young man was rattled.
 
He
looked about 25 or 26, but unlike some of the cockier, younger players Wyatt
had come across in recent times, the guy across from him seemed a little
greener and far less sure of himself.
  

The
opponent’s dark, curly hair was disheveled.
 
Beads of sweat formed on his head above a long, sloping
nose.
 
His greenish eyes looked
panicked behind black wire-framed glasses.
 
The sound of chips clicking throughout the room echoed
loudly, slightly dramatizing the moment further.

Wyatt
made a quick note of how the kid’s hands shook terribly when he had a big
hand.
 
At the moment, they were
making the whole table vibrate.

Sean
knew that meant the guy probably had a big pocket pair lower than Wyatt’s two
black aces that lay in wait, face down on the table.

They’d
made it into the money hours earlier and everyone in the Rio was elated to have
gotten their $1000 back, plus about that much more in prize money.
 
Sean always laughed at people who only
cared about making it into the payout.
 
Where was the fun in that?
 
The thrill was trying to make the final
table and winning the whole thing.

Sean
had needed some R&R for the week.
 
Since he knew Tommy would be busy for a while trying to decipher their
recent discovery, he figured a little time off wouldn’t be a problem.
 

He’d
asked Allyson to come out to Vegas with him, but she had been ordered back to
Washington and reassigned, or so she’d said.
 
Sean wasn’t surprised that she’d been sent back into the
field so quickly.
 
That was one of
the reasons he’d left the agency after such a short term.
 
Another mission always waited.
 

Part
of him had wanted to see where things with her might go but there were a whole
list of problems with trying to date someone who worked for Axis.
 
Living through it for several years had
showed him that.
 
So, he did what
he always did and traveled alone.
 
He didn’t mind, except for the lack of conversation.
 
Sometimes that was a good thing.
 

He’d
caught an early morning flight out of Atlanta two days earlier and thanks to
the assistance of an old friend, a suite at The Venetian had opened up
miraculously the day of his arrival.
 
It was nice to have friends.

“I
call,” the younger player said.
 
The young opponent’s voice snapped Sean’s attention back to the poker
table.
 
The kid flipped over a pair
of queens.
 
Pretty much what Sean
had figured.
 

He
responded by turning over his pair of aces and watched agony wash over the
other player’s face almost instantly.
 
The young man knew he only had two cards in the deck of 52 that could
save him, a hope beyond desperation.

The
dealer discarded the top card and turned over the fifth and final card on the
table, the queen of clubs, giving the Sean’s opponent three of a kind.
 
The young man yelled out a cheer of
ecstatic relief and raised his fists in triumph.
 
A combination of groans and jubilation erupted from the
crowd.
  
The other players at
the table said nothing but were clearly stunned at the outcome.
 
Sean just smiled cynically as he
watched the dealer rake all of his chips over to his opponent.

Wyatt
stood and reached out a hand to the man who had just eliminated him from the
tournament.
 
The guy calmed himself
down enough to accept the gentlemanly gesture and clasped Sean’s hand clumsily.

“Nice
hand, kid.”
 
Sean said.

“Thanks.
 
Wow.
 
I’m sorry man.
 
That sucks.”

Sean
laughed.
 
“In poker, never say
you’re sorry.”
 
Then Sean winked at
him, “besides, these kinds of things come around eventually.”

The
younger player smiled, understanding what he meant and went back to his seat,
exhilarated.

Sean
headed over to the cashier to pick up his winnings and, a few minutes later,
made for the door.
 
As he walked
towards the exit a few people consoled him on the bad beat he’d just received.
 
One particular Canadian professional had
stopped him on his way out.
 

“You
are way too good not to have won one of these things,” was all the man had
said.
 
Maybe,
Sean thought but he knew he didn’t really need the
money.
 
The young gun who’d just
taken his chips probably had a lifetime’s worth of student loans to pay
off.
 
So he was okay with the
loss.
 
He stepped outside into the
young night.
 
Warm desert air greeted
him, instantly causing his mind to forget the cool air-conditioned comfort from
where he’d just come.
 
Nine o’clock
at night in late fall, and it still felt like late spring back home.
 

On
the horizon, just over the mountains surrounding the basin in which the city
rested, a pale remnant of sunset gave its last gasp against the coming
darkness.
 
Wyatt had visited Las
Vegas on several occasions and every single time he’d been fascinated by the
weather.
 
The city was always sunny
and extremely hot in the summers.
 
He remembered strolling down the strip one day in June thinking he’d
accidentally walked into a huge oven.
 
The fall wasn’t so bad.
 
Days were in the low to mid 80s and the evenings cooled off
considerably.
 

Back
home in the south, people complained it was too hot in the summer time.
 
And while the humidity certainly made
it seem warmer, at least there was a cooling breeze that soothed the senses
somewhat.
 
Out in the Nevada
desert, the wind only seemed to make it worse like someone was turning on a
heating fan.

Sean
started to make his way to a cab, dancing through the mass of people coming and
going to the Rio.
  
There was
no shortage of taxis lined up outside the casino and Sean hailed the closest
one.
 
A few minutes later he was in
the back seat, en route to his hotel

The
ride back to The Venetian was only five to ten minutes, although it seemed like
the cab driver took the “scenic route.”
 
On the Las Vegas Boulevard, otherwise known as “the strip,” pedestrians
crowded the busy sidewalks.
 
Some
were sober, others considerably less so, taking full advantage of the city’s
lack of laws concerning walking around with enormous amounts of visible
alcohol.

Some
people carried vessels that were shaped like plastic guitars with straws
sticking out of them.
 
Others just
carried giant cups filled with booze of various kinds.
 
Sean wondered how good those drinks
could possibly be, made from cheap liquor and watered down with mixers.
 
They must have done the trick,
though.
 
Revelers laughed and
stumbled around the city with huge smiles on their faces.

A
colorful array of lights and digital signs beamed down the main strip with
enormous monstrosities of rising above them into the desert night sky.
 
Paris, Cosmopolitan, Caesar’s Palace,
Aria, Wynn, Mandalay Bay, Bellagio, and MGM Grand had all taken their places as
some of the more upscale locations.
 
Some of the less fancy casinos stood out like an eyesore, badly in need
of renovation to keep up with the esthetic appeal of the newer venues.
 

The
taxi pulled up to the entrance of Venetian’s main lobby and Sean’s mind
returned to his present location.
 
He loved The Venetian and it’s neighbor, The Palazzo.
 
He paid the taxi driver and left an
extra five on top as a tip.

The
uniformed doorman greeted him with a smile beneath his thick, graying mustache
and Sean nodded a thank you as he passed by.
 
The familiar scent that filled The Venetian wafted out of
the door and embraced him upon entry.
 
He couldn’t place the scent precisely, but it seemed like a mélange of
jasmine, vanilla, and spice.

Inside
the hotel lobby, he was greeted by a dismantling array for the senses.
 
A circular room opened up to a dramatic
domed ceiling, in the center of which was a round skylight.
 
Elaborate frescoes of angels, gods, and
saints surrounded the clear opening.
 
Columns of white marble accented the walls and corners, crowned with
golden footings and crests.
 
On a cream-colored
and brown marble floor in the center of the room, stood a golden spherical
fountain.
 
The shiny, metal strips
that made up the globe were braced by angelic, armless creatures like a
figurehead on the front of an old ship.
 

He
turned left and headed down a vaulted hallway of similar appearance that led to
the casino and the elevators just beyond.
 
High above him other frescoes of various Italian origins both mythical
and religious adorned the arched ceiling.
 
He’d marveled at the artwork.
 
The detail of each relief and the colors that were incorporated made the
scenery inside the building nothing short of spectacular.
 

The
day before he had taken a stroll around the mall area within the complex that
connected to The Palazzo.
 
He was
amazed at the job the builders had done with the ornate canals that mimicked
the ones in Venice, complete with gondolas and singing gondoliers.
 
The layout was designed to make one
feel like they were actually in Venice right down to the smaller version of San
Marco Square.

Shops
lined the walkways surrounding the canals, providing any visitor with a
breathtaking array of old-world style and modern convenience.
 
There was even an artificial partly
cloudy sky painted on the ceiling to make it feel like patrons were outdoors.
 

How much money went into this place?
 
He
couldn’t help but wonder as he entered the elevator to the tune of Phantom of
the Opera.
 
The musical’s Las Vegas
home happened to be The Venetian at that time.
 
He’d heard good things about the show and was considering
taking it in at some point.

Sean
looked both ways as he exited on the tenth floor.
 
Old habits died hard.
 
Even though he’d not been a government Agent for a few years now, some
things were ingrained in him.
 

The
last few months he’d found himself relaxing a little more, getting back to
“normal” life.
 
That is, until a
few weeks ago.
 
The episode with
Tommy’s kidnapping had brought everything back.
 
He thought about the gun hidden in his room.
 
Never could be too careful, especially
considering recent events.

The
hallway opened into a circular roundabout that led to rooms, suites, and a
bridge to the Venezia Tower where an additional pool and more restaurants were
located.
 
Swimming pools and
restaurants were something that The Venetian certainly didn’t lack.
 
He recalled thinking the hotel must
have had more eateries than a moderately sized city and the pools were a nice
luxury to escape the heat; in the summer they were a necessity.

As
he neared the door he pulled his card key out then slid it into the
reader.
 
The suite was one of the
nicer rooms he’d stayed in during his travels.
 
And he’d travelled a lot.
 
Its view overlooked the main two pools below but beyond the
city, dark brown mountains protruded into the night sky.
 
Tonight though, the room was completely
dark.
 
Housekeeping must have
closed the drapes and automated roman blinds.