The Templar's Code (23 page)

Grabbing Edie with his uninjured right arm, Caedmon pulled her under him just as several more arrows soared in their direction.

“Caedmon, what’s happening?”

“It’s raining bloody arrows,” he snarled, the projectiles bouncing off the granite and skittering into the gushing river beside the ledge. “We have to take cover.”

With Edie tucked against his torso, Caedmon scooted backward onto the granite shelf that protruded from under their makeshift office, Yawgoog’s bridge comprising stacked and staggered granite slabs. While the maneuver got them out of the open, it gave them little more than an eighteen-inch bulwark to crouch behind.

“Are you all right?”

Edie bobbed her head, a stunned look on her face. “If you hadn’t . . . hadn’t leaned over when you did, the arrow would . . . would have . . .”

As it was, the metal tip burrowed into his bicep. A flesh wound, albeit a painful one.

Caedmon glanced over the top of the stone rampart just in time to see the archer briefly step into the open to launch his next salvo. He ducked. The arrow sailed past, plunging into the opposite bank.

“Stay as low to the surface as humanly possible,” he hissed. “I’m going to scramble onto the ledge and grab my field kit.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Dead.”

Edie pointedly stared at the wooden shaft embedded perpendicular to his arm and the bloody circle of fabric that surrounded it. “Given that you have an arrow protruding from your body, ‘yes’ or ‘no’ are the two preferred answers.”

“The first-aid kit and the GPS receiver are—”

“In your knapsack,” she said over top of him. “I’ll get them.” She raised up slightly.

Caedmon shoved his right hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down. “No! And the matter isn’t open for debate.”

Not exactly thrilled by the prospect of becoming a human pincushion, he scurried over the granite ledge. The field kit was five feet away. He awkwardly crawled toward it. Just as his hand made contact with the nylon strap, a feather-tipped arrow came flying his way. Raising the kit to his face, he used it to deflect the arrow.

Still holding the makeshift shield in front of him, he grabbed one more item—the plastic bag with Edie’s memory chip—before lurching over the side of the granite ledge.

Edie snatched the canvas pack from him. Her normally pale cheeks splotched with uneven color, she removed the first aid kit and the GPS receiver.

Taking a deep stabilizing breath, Caedmon grasped the wooden shaft of the arrow.

“Wait!” She grabbed his wrist. “You can’t just pull it out. What if the shaft breaks away from the arrowhead? What if the arrowhead hits an artery?”

“The tip isn’t anywhere near my brachial artery. And while it’ll make for a nasty puncture wound, I’ll live to tell the tale.” Gritting his teeth, he slowly pulled the arrow from his flesh. A small geyser of bright red blood gushed from his arm. He grunted. It hurt like hell. Eyes watering, he flung the arrow aside.

“I didn’t think there’d be so much blood,” Edie said with a gasp.

“Gauze! Hurry!”

Another arrow soared toward them, striking next to the laptop computer. He watched as it bounced in their direction. An ominous sign.

Edie, her hands visibly shaking, placed the end of the gauze roll on top of the puncture wound. “Are you sure it’s Lovett’s killer who’s taking aim?”

“Quite.” The man had a face straight out of a Botticelli canvas; it wasn’t one that he would easily forget.

Finished wrapping his wound, Edie tore the gauze from the roll with her teeth and knotted it off. “Okay. Now what?”

“We take the plunge.”

Her brows instantly shot upward. Eyes saucer-like, she turned toward the river. Flowing at a furiously fast rate, the current frothed and foamed as it pounded against the granite slabs.

“Unfortunately, the river is our only means of escape.” He hurriedly shoved the GPS device into the same bag as Edie’s memory chip, along with the gauze roll and a tube of antibiotic ointment. He then checked to make sure his shirttails were tucked into his denim jeans before placing the watertight parcel inside his shirt, buttoning it to his chin. That done, he cinched his belt another notch.

“So, how do we stop Rico Suave from following us downstream? All he has to do is jog along the riverbank and wait for us to get out of the pool.”

“A diversion is required.” Leaning over, he retrieved the flare gun from the field kit. Plan hatched, he verified that a 12-gauge shell was in the barrel.

“We need more than a diversion,” Edie muttered, dubiously glancing at the plastic single-shot gun. “We need a Sherman tank.”

“Diversions can move mountains.” He caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. “Here he comes! Ready yourself!”

Heart painfully thumping against his breastbone, Caedmon watched as their assailant slowly moved toward them, bow held in front of him, the string drawn.

The bow dipped slightly, the killer having sighted his prey.

Beside him, Edie drew in a sharp breath.

Every muscle in Caedmon’s body tensed. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, he sprang up. Took aim.
And fired
.

The discharged shell made a high-pitched whistling sound. It was the only warning the archer had before the flare lodged in the V of his armpit. The sleeve of his nylon windbreaker instantly caught fire. Dropping the bow, the beautiful young man began to wildly flap his arm as he spun around in circles. An enraged rooster desperately trying to extinguish the flame.

“Hurry! There’s no time to lose!”

Offering up a quick prayer—that they wouldn’t be dashed on the rocks—Caedmon grabbed hold of Edie’s hand and leaped.

Those were the first two thoughts that Caedmon processed as his body hit the water, plunging feet first into a river that was much colder and far deeper than he’d expected. Keeping his arms locked at his sides, he furiously kicked his feet as the raging current shot him back to the surface like an ocean buoy.

“Edie!”

He turned his head just in time to see her break the surface, her arms flailing as she pitched and rolled in the river current. She opened her mouth, hacking, coughing, gasping for air.

“Caedmon!”

“I’m here! To your left!” he yelled over the crescendo of thundering whitecaps. He tried to swim toward her, but the current was too strong. Already carrying him down river. As though he’d been shot through a water chute. “Go with it! Don’t fight the current!”

Caedmon took his own advice, going with the flow, using his legs as propellers, he concentrated on keeping his head above water. Glancing behind him, he could see that Edie was now swimming with stronger, more confident strokes.
Thank God.

About fifty yards ahead of them the river curved, the current smoothing out into a more manageable course. In the bend of the curve was a toppled tree, the fallen hardwood extending into the river.
A perfect place to dock.

“I see it!” Edie shouted, having read his thoughts. “I’m headed that way!”

“Right!” He deepened his strokes. Grunting, he furiously kicked his arms and legs, putting every ounce of effort into—

Yes!
He grabbed hold of the rough-hewn bark. Fortuitously, a large boulder was wedged beneath the tree. Using it as a launch pad, he pulled himself out of the water and onto the limb. A throbbing corona of pain radiated from the arrow wound. He wanted very much to bellow.

“I’m right behind you!” Edie called out.

Caedmon leaned over the side of the tree and wrapped his uninjured arm around her torso, hauling her out of the river. They both awkwardly straddled the limb. Huffing from her exertions, Edie’s head dropped to her chest.

“I know that you’re exhausted, Edie, but it’s imperative that we make a hasty departure. Can you manage the tree trunk?”

Raising her head, Edie nodded. “I’ve got a good sense of balance and it’s a pretty thick trunk.”

“Right.” Testing his own sense of balance, he stood up.

With his arms held perpendicular to his body, Caedmon gracelessly ambled to the river bank, doing a fair impersonation of an inebriated tightrope walker. Leaping to the ground, he turned and, with outstretched arms, caught Edie as she jumped from the tree trunk.

For several long moments they clung to one another. That is, until Edie began to violently shiver. Worried, he pulled away.

“We need to get you to the car before hypothermia—”

“Caedmon, look down!”

A stricken expression on her face, Edie pointed to a spot some eighteen inches from his boot tip. There, coiled in a pile of rotting humus beside the fallen hardwood, was a mottled brown snake. Beautifully camouflaged. As nature had intended. Caedmon took its measure at three to four feet.

“I think it’s a copperhead,” Edie whispered. “No sudden moves. They’re very sensitive to vibration.”

In a lowered voice, he asked the obvious. “Is it poisonous?”

“Oh, yeah. And they can strike as fast as you can move.”

As though to prove that very point, the snake reared its head.

About to shove Edie out of striking range, he was flat-out shocked when a single shot rang out, severing the snake’s head from its coiled body.

Caedmon spun on his heel, brought up short when he saw a dark-skinned man standing twenty feet away. The scowling stranger had a face like a closed fist. He also had a bolt-action rifle raised to his shoulder—the muzzle pointed directly at them.

“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.”