The Templar's Code (14 page)

Saviour Panos glared at the overweight idiot in the baseball cap and blue jacket.
“Nagamoti mana su stomai su,”
he muttered, enraged.
And your mother’s mother while you’re at it
. He didn’t have to understand the other man’s idioms to know that he was being bilked. To the tune of five hundred dollars. The price the tow-truck driver demanded for hauling the Audi out of the sand trap
and
not reporting the incident to the local police.

Able to detect the smell of pickled cabbage, Saviour wrinkled his nose. He hated the smell of sauerkraut. For that offense alone he should gut the man like a netted tuna.

The other man shrugged. Oblivious to the fact that he’d just been accused of committing a reprehensible act involving his mother’s mouth. “You’re the one who drove into a sand trap. Now you have to pay the piper if you want to be on your merry way. And don’t blame me . . . shit happens.”

Although furious, Saviour couldn’t dispute the driver’s prophetic assertion. Shit
did
happen. And always when you least expected it. The Brit had outwitted him. Yet again. And though he, Saviour, drove the more powerful vehicle, the English bastard bested him. But he knew where to find the pair. Having eavesdropped on their conversation last evening, he knew their entire itinerary. Even the name of the hotel they’d booked for the night. He already had the Hope Valley Inn plotted on his portable GPS device.

Arms crossed over his chest, Saviour impatiently paced the golf green, anxious for the tow-truck driver to haul the Audi out of the pit. Although temporarily delayed, he was still two steps ahead of the pair. Two steps, because he knew where to find them and he possessed the power of life and death. A power bestowed upon him by his beloved Ari that long-ago dawn when he’d returned to the flat . . .

He’d spent the night cruising the Enola Gay discotheque. It had been a good haul, his pockets flush with euros. He could now buy the blue cashmere sweater for Ari that he’d seen in a boutique window. Easily chilled, Ari was prone to violent fits of shivering. Some days Saviour would cradle him like a baby, using his own body heat to warm his friend. A heart fire. Immune from the contagion, he was the perfect caregiver. As it turned out, his mother had him inoculated for TB when he was a child. According to the physician at the hospital, the BCG vaccine had protected him from contracting the deadly infection. How ironic. Iphigenia had given him life. She resented his life. And then she saved his life.

In high spirits despite the early hour, he’d regaled Ari with the silly chitchat he’d overheard at the disco. Inane babble spouted by preening pretty boys. Clearly disinterested, Ari motioned him to the bed. He obliged, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Wrapping a bony hand around his upper arm, Ari pulled him close so he could whisper something in his ear. Horrified, Saviour pulled away.
Ókhi! No! Impossible! Don’t ask again!
He lurched from the bed and stomped to the other side of the bed chamber. In desperate need of a cigarette, he flung open the window, reached into his pocket, and removed the pack of Dunhill cigarettes that he’d stolen from one of the preening pretty boys. Ari continued to stare at him beseechingly. Saviour forced himself to return the stare. Determined to win the battle of wills.

This was not the first time that his beloved friend had pleaded with him to use his greater strength. To commit that final irreversible act. Each time, Saviour had adamantly refused.
The medicine still might work, yes?

But that particular morning, something happened in the intervening seconds of stalemated silence. For the first time, he forced himself to look at the bloody rags that littered the floor. The disgusting sputum cup. The sloppy array of pill bottles. And then he smelled it—the fetid, foul stench of decaying flesh. In that instant, he
knew
: Ari was dying from the inside out. Dormant bacteria in the body had begun to necrotize the tubercles in his lungs.

No longer able to turn a blind eye, he relented. Walking toward the bed, he sat beside his beloved.
The angel of death in a striped boatneck sweater
. He wrapped an arm around Ari’s pathetically thin shoulders. With his free hand, he reached for the blood-splattered pillow. Ari smiled. The first smile in many days. Saviour placed the pillow over his friend’s face.

Had he known that he would also be plunged into a dark void, he would not have done it; the ensuing guilt was unbearable. He’d always had a quick temper, never one to back down from a fight. But after Ari’s death, it took little provocation to incite a murderous rage.

The first time it happened, he’d been with an overly plump German who refused to pay the agreed-upon price. For nearly twenty minutes he’d been on all fours while the stout bastard huffed and puffed, enveloping him in the nauseating scents of sauerkraut and sausage. After the blitzkrieg, the Düsseldorf banker had the gall to say, “I had hoped for something better.” Infuriated, Saviour refused to let the insult go unanswered. Acting on a whim, he smashed the empty Riesling bottle against the hotel dresser and slashed the fat man’s throat. For the next week, he’d lived extravagantly on the wad of euros that he’d stolen from the dead man’s wallet. A new leather jacket. A pair of boots. A cashmere turtleneck sweater.

The German was followed to the grave by an Israeli tourist. Because of Ari’s death, they
had
to pay.

Just as the Brit would soon pay for having bested him.

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Caedmon said as he raised the ceramic lid that covered the toilet tank.

Holding her breath, Edie looked inside.

“Nothing but dank water and the standard plumbing apparatus.” Baffled, she glanced at the crucifix hanging above the toilet. “Jason Lovett did
not
hang that cross so he could pray while on the pot.”

“We must assume it’s a red herring.” Caedmon repositioned the lid back on the tank.

Unconvinced, Edie shook her head. “I don’t think so. We just haven’t followed the
aqua sanctus
clue to its logical conclusion. For starters: Where does the water in this tank go?”

Caedmon’s brow furrowed. “I imagine that it flows into the public sewer system.”

“Nope. You imagine wrong. Since this is a rural area, there isn’t a public water system. With every flush, all of the
aqua sanctus
in the toilet bowl goes to a septic tank, which”—she stepped into the bathtub so she could peer out the bathroom’s only window—“is almost always buried
behind
the house because, let’s face it, who wants a cesspit in their front yard?” She scanned the unkempt backyard visible on the other side of the smudged glass.

“And you think Lovett may have hidden his research notes near the septic tank?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Got a better idea?”

“Lovett was using the spare bedroom to store his excavating tools. I’ll grab a shovel and meet you in the back garden.”

Several minutes later, spade and pickax at the ready, they set out in search of the buried septic tank.

“I’m no expert, but most septic tanks have a hatch that’s visible aboveground,” Edie said, putting a hand to her eyes as she surveyed the surprisingly expansive lawn. “The goose grass is thick and the foxtail knee-high. Lovett obviously didn’t own a mower.”

“I suspect his preoccupation with the Templar treasure is the real reason for the overgrowth.” Caedmon jutted his chin toward the right side of the yard. “You search that half of the lawn and I’ll take—”

“Found it!” She pointed to an area approximately one hundred feet from where they stood. “See that plush patch of weeds? What do you want to bet Lovett’s bumper weed crop is being fertilized by the discharge from the septic tank?”

Caedmon slung both of the long-handled tools over his shoulder. “Your powers of observation are commendable. If this is indeed where Dr. Lovett buried his research notes, we should be on the lookout for signs of disturbed vegetation.”

“How can you be so sure that Lovett
buried
his notes?”

“It’s what
I
would have done.” Caedmon came to a halt at the edge of the thicket. “Ah! I see a clump of snapped thistles. Evidence that someone very recently traipsed through here.”

“Could have been a deer or other wild animal.”

“Only if their hooves were shod in lug-heeled boots,” he retorted with a smirk, pointing to a cluster of visible footprints. “This is newly turned soil. I suspect that Dr. Lovett stomped on the loose earth after he refilled the hole.”

A bluejay perched in a nearby tree cawed, the harsh sound eerily similar to a rusty gate swinging on a hinge. Spooked, Edie glanced at her watch. Fourteen minutes had lapsed since they first arrived at the cottage.

“Yes, I know; the clock is ticking,” Caedmon remarked, accurately reading her thoughts. Unlimbering the digging tools from his shoulder, he handed her the pickax. Then, firmly planting his leather shoe on top of the shovel blade, he forcefully pushed down. “Hopefully, our would-be fossor dug a shallow grave.”

He did. Steel struck metal in under two minutes.

“Eureka!” she exclaimed, going down on her haunches to better examine the upturned object. “Looks like a metal toolbox. Ooh! And it’s
very
heavy.”

Caedmon grasped the container’s handle. “I suggest that we take our booty back to the cottage.”

“Good idea.” Standing upright, Edie furtively glanced at the turquoise trailer. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I’ve got a hinky feeling that someone’s snooping on us.”

Hansel and Gretel. Still mucking around Lovett’s cottage
.

Tonto Sinclair lowered the binocs and set them on the dashboard. He’d parked the Ford F100 behind an abandoned single-wide. Out of sight. He figured that like the candypants foreigner who earlier trashed the joint, they were looking for buried treasure. White birds of an avarice feather. According to his buddy Bear Mathieson who ran the Gas ’N’ Go station, Hansel was an Englishman.

’Cause anyone familiar with tribal history knew that it was the English motherfuckers who triggered the Narragansett demise. History 101.
They came. They saw. They conquered
.

In need of a smoke, Tonto reached for the pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket. With an impatient shake of the wrist, he loosened one from the pack and clamped his lips around the filter, sliding it from the pack.
Another one of life’s little ironies,
he mused as he clicked the lighter. Had it not been for a pack of smokes, he’d never have found out about Yawgoog. Or the treasure. Or what really happened when Verrazano and his knights made landfall.

It’d been hot as hell that July morning in ’03 when he pulled into the Charlestown smoke shop to buy a pack of Marlboros. He’d spent the previous night in the county lockup on a drunk and disorderly charge stemming from a verbal altercation that he’d had with a redneck who made the mistake of calling him a drunken, shiftless injun. The drunken part he owned up to; he
had
downed a twelve-pack of PBR. But shiftless, he wasn’t, having clocked fifty hours that week at the sawmill. His fuse short, he sought redress with the classic one-two sucker punch—jab-straight, then right-to-the-body.

The fuse wasn’t any longer the next morning when he staggered into the reservation smoke shop, foul mood courtesy of a thin, lumpy mattress, a bad hangover, and a flatulent cellmate. He’d just handed a fiver to the gal behind the counter when a trio of Rhode Island state troopers suddenly stormed through the shop door. Two of the uniformed bastards had their weapons drawn. The third had a snarling German shepherd on a lead. Lips curved in a malicious grin, the head trooper yelled, “Everybody! Hands where we can see them!”

Endowed with an innate distrust of authority figures, Tonto made damned sure that the trooper who tried to arrest him—
for buying a fucking pack of smokes!—
got a good look at both his hands. Right before he balled them into fists and let the bastard have it with a hard right hook. Like it was the punch heard around the world, all hell broke loose inside the smoke shop.