The Templar's Code (59 page)

Damn the Bard. He had no blasted idea just how abysmally dark it could get.

Hampered by the handcuffs, Caedmon had to crawl, crab-like, on his knees and elbows, wrists held off the ground. He bit back the pain that ferociously pulsed from his mutilated hand. Surrounded by Stygian blackness, he navigated by sound. A difficult feat in a cave where each and every thud reverberated off the octagon stone walls in a distorted echo.

Knowing there was a second death trap, he painstakingly moved forward a few inches at a time. Every now and again, he stopped, listened, made a course adjustment.
A blind, battered fool.
But what choice did he have? If he and Edie called retreat and left the cave, the bastard would put a bullet in each of their backs.

While Dr. Lyon had a gun, he also had at least seventy winters on his head, putting the older man at a distinct disadvantage. Or so Caedmon hoped. His plan was to catch the bastard unawares.

Hearing a muffled wheeze—one that definitely did not emanate from Edie—he headed in that direction. Hope renewed.

The chain that yoked the two cuffs together softly jangled.

Almost instantaneously, a shot rang out. The bullet hit the floor a few feet from Caedmon, spraying his face with stone chips.

The bastard was standing there—wherever
there
was—with his ears perked. Listening. Firing each and every time he heard so much as a peep. By his count, Dr. Lyon had five bullets left in the clip. Ample ammunition to kill them.

Caedmon froze. Stilled his breathing. Focused on the palpable silence until he heard—
yes!—
an almost imperceptible breath.

The old man was close.
Very close.

Knowing it was now or never, Caedmon surged forward, butting his head against Dr. Lyon’s shins—knocking his legs out from under him. The older man hit the ground with a thud. One that induced a pain-racked bellow.

The attack cost Caedmon, an agonizing burst of pain exploding in his left hand. He bit back a scream, unable to follow up on the initial attack.

Seconds later, catching his breath, he awkwardly clambered several feet, swiping the ground with his manacled right hand, searching for the fallen gunman. He came up empty-handed.

A lantern suddenly switched on, the cave flooded with fluorescent light.

Caedmon blinked, willing his pupils to speedily make the adjustment. Squinting, he glanced up . . . just in time to see Professor Lyon, now standing over top of him. Still clinging to the Emerald Tablet, the other man aimed his small black pistol right at him. The kill shot—when it came—would slam directly into the center of his forehead.

Caedmon gulped a deep breath. No doubt his last. Standing near the altar, Edie screamed.

“I’m sorry,” the older man murmured, eyes filled with tears.

“I’m not!” a deep voice intoned.

What happened next occurred with such stunning rapidity that Caedmon struggled to process the lightning-fast chain of action and reaction:
Dr. Lyon glanced up. Gasped. Redirected his 9mm pistol at the new threat. Caedmon peered behind him. His turn to gasp—

The Narragansett Indian, Tonto Sinclair, a Winchester bolt-action rifle held to his shoulder, stood in the entryway to the sanctuary.

Just then, a bullet rang out. Fired from Dr. Lyon’s pistol. A split second later, another shot, this one from Tonto Sinclair’s rifle. Caedmon watched in stunned amazement as a high-speed bullet hit the Emerald Tablet.
Actually ricocheting off the damn thing!
As though it were sheathed in Kevlar, the relic proved impenetrable.

The impact of the high-velocity shot forcefully thrust Dr. Lyon backward. Like a wobbly child’s top, the older man spun to the left. He then staggered several steps, still,
amazingly
, keeping his hold on the sacred relic.

Suddenly realizing that the older man was veering toward the second death trap, Caedmon unthinkingly shouted, “Stop!”

Too late
.

Like his beautiful paramour, Dr. Lyon instantly vanished, plummeting to . . .
the abyss.

A moment of stunned silence ensued.

Only to be shattered when the Indian rifleman deftly yanked the bolt handle on his weapon, ejecting the spent shell casing. Grim-faced, he closed the bolt, chambering the next round.

“Something tells me that we’re not out of the cave just yet,” Edie murmured. In her right hand, she held a lantern, its white beam skittishly jerking about. Evidence of her jittery unease.

Tonto Sinclair strolled over to the gaping hole and peered down. “What do you wanna bet there’s no big white rabbit down there?”

“You have my gratitude, Mr. Sinclair,” Caedmon said, well aware that the Indian had saved his life.

Resting the rifle in the crook of his arm, Sinclair stared at him with hooded eyes. “Last I heard, white man still speak with forked tongue. And I didn’t take out the bastard to save your ass.”

“Indeed? Which begs the question, why did you pull the trigger?”

“You’re a smart motherfucker. Figure it out.”

“Mr. Sinclair did it to prevent Yawgoog’s Stone from being removed from the cave,” Edie said, walking toward them. She fixed her gaze on the rifleman, her earlier fear replaced with a calm certainty. “Isn’t that right?”

“Smart lady. It’s been more than four centuries, but Yawgoog’s Stone has finally been returned. The curse on my people will be lifted.” The harsh tone had noticeably softened.

“You mentioned Yawgoog’s Stone when we first met, but . . . Did you know then that Yawgoog’s Stone and the fabled Emerald Tablet were one and the same?”
That Yawgoog’s Stone was the link between the Knights Templar and the Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaton.

“Jason Lovett was using me to find Yawgoog’s gold. The scrawny shit was on a treasure hunt. He didn’t believe that Yawgoog entrusted my people with the sacred stone. Or if Lovett did believe, he didn’t care.”

Caedmon stood silent. Guilty of the same crime as the ill-fated archaeologist. From the beginning, he suspected that the legendary Yawgoog was a Knights Templar. Or, at the very least, a descendant of the fugitive knights. But he’d given little thought to the relationship that may have existed between the Templars and the Narragansett. Simply put, it had no bearing on his investigation.
His treasure hunt.

A treasure hunt that just came to a startling finale, the Emerald Tablet flushed down the proverbial drain.

His initial relief having congealed into hollow regret, Caedmon walked over and examined the gaping hole.
Deep?
Most assuredly. But certainly not bottomless. With the proper equipment, he could—

“Let it go, Caedmon.” Standing beside him, Edie took hold of his right hand. Under the pitiless glare of the florescent light, her skin appeared translucent. Her deep-set brown eyes heart-wrenchingly serious.

Although she uttered but four simple words, Caedmon had the distinct impression that he’d just been presented with an ultimatum: Edie or the relic.

He cast one more glance at the pit. Then took a deep breath.

“Right.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.
TWO WEEKS LATER

 

“A rave success, love.”

“Why thank you, kind sir.”

Smiling, Edie placed a hand on Caedmon’s crooked elbow. Turning her head, she waved a final farewell to the gallery owner who’d hosted her photo exhibit. Titled “The Glory: Women of Axum,” the collection of documentary-style photographs had been favorably reviewed in the
Washington Post
’s Arts & Living section. At the opening, Caedmon heard the adjectives
luminous
,
thought-provoking
, and
stunning
freely bandied about. He couldn’t be more proud.

“A celebration is in order. Fancy a drink?”

“How about a round of ouzo at Zorba’s?”

Caedmon glanced at the Greek taverna on the other side of Connecticut Avenue. “I think not. Perhaps the wine bar up the street?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As they strolled along the pavement—heavily trafficked at the five o’clock hour—a passing pedestrian accidentally jostled Caedmon on his left side. He winced, pain management still an issue.

Last week, he’d undergone the first round of reconstructive surgery on his mangled hand. Despite the near-constant pain, his orthopedic surgeon remained confident that with the proper rehabilitative therapy, he could expect an 80 percent recovery.

Mercifully, his right hand had not been injured.

Caedmon glanced at the bandaged appendage, trying to put a “happy spin,” as Edie liked to say, on a bleak situation.

Although there is ample reason to rejoice
, he thought, taking note of the soft chiaroscuro blush that suffused the congested cityscape with a heavenly glow. In the grassy median that separated the lanes of traffic, yellow jonquils jauntily swayed. For some inexplicable reason, it made him feel like a new man.

Inspired, he turned his head to the curly-haired maid who walked beside him. “For the longest time, I had no anchor in my life.”

“What about knowledge?” Edie glanced at the silver ring on his unbandaged hand.

“A course heading. A direction to sail the ship. But without an anchor, a man cannot put into harbor.”

“Am I hearing this correctly?” She could barely contain her laughter. “Did you just compare me to a barnacle-encrusted anchor?”

“I did. How bloody unromantic is that?” He shook his head, not exactly certain how to make amends. Then, hit with a brilliant idea, he came to a complete standstill and pulled Edie into his arms, kissing her full on the lips.

It was long moments before he finally pulled away. And then only because the public display had elicited three catcalls and two appreciative whistles.

“Umm, fly me to the moon.” Brown eyes gleaming, Edie batted her lashes. “Care to tag along? The in-flight movie is not to be missed.”

“I am completely enamored.” Slinging his right arm around her shoulders, they continued down the street.

“You’re enamored because spring is in the air. When a young man’s fancy turns to skirt chasing.” Edie flirtatiously raised the hem of her colorful skirt several inches.

“Curiously enough, Thoth was the Egyptian guardian of the vernal equinox.”

“Speaking of which, I know that you’re disappointed about losing the ‘missing link’ between the Knights Templar and—”

“Bugger the Templars.”

Now it was Caedmon’s turn to glance at the silver ring.
Testis sum agnitio.
Although as fascinated as ever with the elusive and enigmatic Templars, he’d vowed that he would never again let his passion overcome his reason, Edie having rightfully accused him of being obsessed.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m still grappling with the fact that Dr. Lyon
seemed
like a kindly grandfather. The sort who wouldn’t harm an annoying fly.”

“ ‘One can smile, and smile, and be a villain.’ ” The instant he said it, he apologetically grimaced. Of late, Edie had taken to calling him “Quetzalquotel.” “Pardon the literary lapse.”

“In America, we like our villains scaled and horned. It’s easier to pass judgment when something is clearly black or clearly white.”

“Gray does have a way of mucking things up. That said, Rubin Woolf had mentioned that the Jewish Kabbalists of Spain were the guardians of the Emerald Tablet prior to the Knights Templar.”

Edie cocked her head to one side, gaze narrowing. “Do I
really
want to hear this?”

Quite honestly, he didn’t know.

“It’s entirely possible that there are other relics or esoteric secrets to be uncovered in Spain,” he continued, deciding to plow his furrow. Come what may. “Given that the Templars were granted land tracts in Catalonia, Valencia, and Aragon during the Middle Ages and that there were established Jewish communities in those same regions, the Iberian Peninsula might prove a fascinating place to conduct research for my next book.” He hesitated, suddenly worried that he’d botched things so badly with the Emerald Tablet that Edie no longer wished to assist him.