CHAPTER SIX

Kate and Vicky both unsnapped their holsters. Kate knocked again, no response. Vicky drew her Beretta and pressed it flat against the side of her leg, finger on trigger.

The door opened a crack, revealing a young Latino man. “Yes?”

“Mr. Ramirez?” Kate showed her badge. “Police.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m Detective Flynn. This is Detective Marroquin. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“What about?” His eyes were cautious.

“Do you own a dark green Ford two-door sedan?”

“No. I mean, it’s my wife’s.”

“Why is it being repaired in Ventura?”

“Is that a crime?”

“Contesta la pregunta!” Vickie snapped.

Her tone shriveled his testicles like frostbite. “My wife has gone to Texas to visit her folks. I was driving her car and scratched it. It’s brand new. I wanted to get it fixed so she wouldn’t know.”

“Was this on Monastery Road?” Kate asked.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I was speeding. I rounded a curve and scraped another car. Then they hit something, but I kept going. My insurance will make it good. I swear.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“I . . . I . . . was being chased.”

Kate glanced at Vicky. “Chased?”

“It’s personal. I can’t go into it.”

“Go there,” Vicky said. “We’re talking homicide.”

“Homicide?” His voice cracked.

“If we go downtown,” Kate added, “you won’t be coming back. It’s called obstruction.”

“Look, I was with this . . . this woman. We were in bed. Okay?”

“Okay. So, what happened?”

“Her husband came home. And caught us.”

“What’s that got to do with your wife’s car?” Vicky asked.

“He’s a security guard. He carries a gun, man! I ran out in just my jockey shorts. Him and her got into an argument, so I managed to get to my car. I made it out of the driveway when he comes running out of the house with a gun. He was coming after me! I took off. He was in his car right behind me. That’s why when I scraped that Ford I didn’t stop.”

“You took your car to the Ventura shop so the security guard would have trouble finding you?”

“Security guard, hell. My wife comes back tomorrow and her car is gone. Frankly, I hope the security guard finds me before she does!”

Kate and Vicky were sitting in the car still parked in front of Ramirez’s house.

Vicky giggled. “Our suspect turns out to be a cheating husband running from his lover’s husband with gun?”

“Hell, I was about to call SWAT for backup.”

Giggles dissolved into laughter. When they recovered, Kate sighed, “Dear God, Thomas, where are you?”

Thomas closed the diary in its plastic covers, put it in the briefcase with his translation notes, and rubbed his tired eyes. The day’s work had been exhausting. He estimated it was after eleven. He didn’t wear a watch; at the monastery a bell tolled the canonical hours. Here, he tried to follow that same routine for a sense of control. Kneeling beside the cot, he began the prayer for compline. “Almighty God unto whom all . . .”

There was an explosion and the crash of glass. He switched off the table lamp. Immediately, he tasted the sharp tang of tear gas. Somewhere outside he heard shouts.

He rushed to the bathroom, wet a towel, and began breathing through it. As he came back into the room, the door burst from its frame. Two men appeared in black assault gear and wearing gas masks.

“Policía! Vamanos!”

One man motioned to him; the other went to the desk and grabbed the briefcase. Thomas, nearly blinded by stinging mist, was led by one of them. In the next room he saw two men on the floor, coughing. A policeman covered them while another was binding them with flexi-cuffs.

Outside, Thomas gulped air and wiped his burning eyes. Looking around he blearily saw for the first time that he was out in the country. The only light came from a single lamp on the small stucco farmhouse.

“You okay?” The man’s voice was muffled by the gas mask.

The second man handed him the briefcase. “You better carry this.”

Thomas took it and then realized that there were only three parked sedans. Where were the police vehicles?

A handcuff snapped on his wrist. “Get in the car!” the man ordered.

Before he could react, two shots fired inside the house.

“Shit!” One man wheeled around and ran back toward the house.

The other turned around to cover his partner. Thomas swung the briefcase hard, slamming him in the back of the head. He dropped like an anchor.

Thomas ran into the dark.

Brychan was spinning in a chaos black as hell’s abyss. Choking in a swirling void, his skin burned with countless stinging nettles.

Behind there were short bursts of strange thunder. Quick flashes of light revealed demons in black chasing him.

A voice shrieked in terror; it was his. He felt arms holding him, then recognized Sara.

“You cried out,” she whispered. “Were you dreaming?”

It was not a dream but a trance, unbidden. “Someone is following us. Demons in black.” He looked across the campfire to see Ursus staring. Then he realized that Sara’s arms were still holding him.

In the Templar discipline, if caught in a woman’s embrace, a knight would serve a year’s penance in a cramped cell where he could not fully stand. Should there be any sexual contact, the penalty was expulsion from the Order. The woman would be branded to mark her before she went to prison for fornication.

Ursus’ look was severe at this blatant violation of the rules of their order; it added to the already heavy burden they carried for disobedience, if discovered.

•••

With no moon and only faint stars Thomas stumbled in the dark through a cultivated field. He was wearing his monk’s sandals. A dim light was showing from the house behind him. He avoided looking at the light; it would delay his getting night vision. Suddenly he fell, sprawling in a tangle of bean vines stretching in the dark forever. Somewhere behind him he heard yelling.

He scrambled to his feet; there was more gunfire from the house. Whoever they were, they sure as hell weren’t cops.

Thomas clutched the briefcase, a handcuff dangled from one wrist. Again, he fell in the tangled maze. His fingers felt the ground; there was about a foot width between the rows. If he could stay on this path, he would fall less.

Searching for something to fix on, he looked at the sky while concentrating on calming his breathing. A scattering of stars came into focus. He picked one in line with where he stood and began walking. He made almost fifty yards before falling again.

Half an hour later he was still moving through bean tillage. Occasionally, he fell, but not as often. When he broke on to a dirt road, he was able to walk briskly for another half hour. Finally, the road intersected with a paved two-lane. Ahead were signs on a post. In the dark he could make out a word: Oxnard.

Not Mexico! He was less than an hour from Santa Barbara.

After arriving home from the evening’s fiasco, Kate did not go to bed. She was studying Gladys Pullman’s homicide file when the phone rang.

“Hi. Remember me?”

“Thomas! Where are you?”

“Oxnard. A service station. Want to bail me out?”

•••

When she drove up to the gas station, Thomas was waiting outside. His clothes were muddy; he had a week’s growth of beard and a big smile.

Kate felt his arms around her for the first time. She was startled by her feelings. “Are you alright?”

He held up the dangling handcuffs. “Can you get this off?”

“Keep it on. Adds sexy macho to your monk’s image.”

At her apartment, she made coffee and they sat in the den. When he showed her the diary he babbled like a kid at Christmas. It was Babe Ruth’s bat, Mark Twain’s pen, Satchmo’s trumpet, and a splinter of the True Cross all in one. He told her about Nora, her war with Fallon, and the GOLEM project, all interlinked by her warped logic.

Kate was incredulous. “You mean that woman who kept me awake nights is simply crazy?”

“Totally insane. First, she denies any connection to the courier Hollander’s murder, then proudly admitted killing someone just to get information on GOLEM.”

“That has to be the Baltimore homicide—Dr. Gladys Pullman.”

“Who is Pullman?”

“Fallon’s top researcher.”

“That fits what Nora said. And you won’t believe this—she offered me a deal. I give her the translation, she gives me the diary.”

“Which makes you work for her. Crazy, but smart.”

“She even explained how I could have sneaked out of the monastery and killed the courier. I almost believed her.”

Kate laughed. “No way. You were the first one I eliminated.”

“How?”

“You simply did not fit.”

“That’s not very scientific.”

“Science gets convictions. Intuition and legwork get suspects. That’s three generations of cop talking.”

“Then who rescued me?”

Kate thought for a moment. “How about Fallon?”

“You said he was the only one you didn’t suspect.”

“But now I’ve had to rethink everything because this is becoming one hell of a case.” She enumerated on her fingers. “Suppose Fallon killed Gladys Pullman for whatever reason. The diary being stolen leads suspicion away from him. When you are abducted, he even uses that. He finds out where you are because with his money his sources are better than ours. He sends a team to rescue you. But you blow everything by escaping!”

“Shoot at me and risk killing their translator?”

“Think. Did anybody actually shoot at you?”

“Now I’m not sure.”

“Then, let’s stick with what we know. Nora has admitted killing Pullman, Fallon’s intel expert; that’s capital murder one.”

“What do we have on Fallon?”

“Nothing. Yet he’s tied to everything. His courier, murdered. His close associate, murdered, the body never found. His book dealer, murdered. Fallon is like one of the Four Horsemen, Death, riding through everyone’s lives.” Kate shook her head. “Frankly, he’s a first for me. I have never seen anyone like him.”

Nora hung up her cell phone. Ravel had just reported that an assault team attacked and escaped with the monk and diary. He was on his way to meet with her when it happened. She was relieved. Had Ravel been there, he would have killed the monk. Terrorist MO: no rescue.

She dialed a number. Only when the person stopped swearing did she realize it was four in the morning.

Nora apologized, then asked, “Did Fallon know where the monk was held?” She listened. “No? Your check is in the mail.”

She hung up, her thoughts racing. If Fallon didn’t know, then who led the raid to free Thomas? Obviously, there was another player.

In the guestroom, Thomas lay awake despite aching fatigue. He and Kate agreed to look at everything fresh in the morning. An hour later he was still staring wide-eyed in the dark.

Kate, in her bedroom was sitting on the side of her bed; sleep was impossible. Thomas’ return awakened feelings she had suppressed. The instant she saw him and felt his arms around her she realized how strong those emotions were. This was the last thing she needed—no personal involvement! She looked at the clock, three-twenty, too early to get up. She thumped her pillow into another shape and tried again.

Still wide awake, Thomas switched on his bedside lamp and opened the diary. He resumed reading Brychan’s narrative just after the Templars’ fight with the Pope’s soldiers.

Our battle tactic worked. Surprise had been complete with the daring ruse by the Gypsy girl riding naked. Now we would discover whether our thief answers to King or Pope.

Father Pierre sat on the ground looking at the two Templars looming over him. He repeated, “I am Father Pierre Du’Bray, Dominican order, emissary for His Holiness and Supreme Pontiff, Clement.”

From the way the younger knight had introduced himself, Pierre assumed that he was keeper of the diary. The one called Ursus was terrifying, striking down men like a demon. Prinkling with fear, the priest stared at Ursus. While cleaning bloody refuse from his mace, the warrior occasionally looked at him as if deciding how he should be cooked. It was rumored that Templars relished human flesh when prepared the Saracen way: the head with its brain spit-roasted in butter.

With a shudder, Pierre looked to see the Gypsy rummaging through the dead. The sun was blazing hot and the air rankled heavy with the stink of death—a mix of blood, mangled flesh, and the be-shitted corpses of man and horse. He had never smelled a battlefield—even a small one like this.

After the battle he had watched as the two Templars dismounted. They began chanting from their battle Psalms with their particular martial rhythm.

Blessed be the Lord my strength which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight . . . For by Thee have I run through a troop, and by my God have I leaped over a barrier . . . Your right hand did sustain me, and Your battle cry made me many.

Pierre knew that Templars believed their war cry—“Beauseant!”—was revealed by God to make them appear greater in number to their enemy. It was true for he had just witnessed it.

Brychan jerked him to his feet. “Priest, tell us of your mission for Pope Clement. Refuse, and Brother Ursus will slowly skin the flesh from your body in the Saracen manner while you watch. It takes the better part of a day.”

Sara was scavenging from dead to dead, searching their saddle packs. She found canteens of sour wine, salt-dried beef, ground barley meal, chunks of rock-hard cheese, and stale loaves of black rye. Few spices, no peppers. Even the poorest Roma ate better than these Gadjay.

Looking at the battleground-strewn dead she shivered, recalling everything both terrifying and thrilling.

While waiting for the enemy she sat naked on her horse. She could feel the damp heat of the stallion between her legs. At the right moment, she urged the horse to a gallop. The instant the soldiers saw her, they began yelling. Even from a distance she knew that look on every face.

Her stallion surged full speed and from the horse’s motion against her bare legs and pelvis, she felt a tingle growing with each stride. She was close enough to the enemy cavalry when, at the rear of the troop, she saw two of them tumble to either side, revealing Brother Ursus. Behind him was Brychan with a trooper riding in front. The trooper’s head suddenly disappeared.

She watched Brychan, eyes blazing as he slashed another soldier who fell, spewing a stream of blood. At that same instant, her body exploded from groin to throat as she cried out.

It was like that first time under the covers in the dark, when her older cousin Carmen showed her how.

Sara put her collection of salvaged food in a pile with their provisions as she watched the two Templars. On the ground beside Ursus was the VERITAS chest, its seals unbroken. The diary lay on top.

Ursus had collected two shields from the enemy dead. Now they’d be better armed in the next battle.

Brychan was questioning the priest, toying with him, a cat teasing its prey. The Dominican’s color was sickly whey as he tried to answer.

“Priest, how long have you been the Pope’s thief?”

“Sir Knight, I serve him at his pleasure. Whatever he . . .”

“What else have you done for him?”

“I was the emissary for His Holiness in Paris, two weeks past.”

“What occasion, Dominican?” he spat the word in contempt. Dominicans were by far the greatest number in the Inquisition.

Pierre waned even paler. “On the occasion of . . .”

“The burning of Grand Master de Molay?”

Pierre managed to nod.

“You were there as the Pope’s official witness?”

Pierre tried again but fear choked his words.

Brychan tossed him the canteen. “Shall Brother Ursus begin your skinning? He hates Dominicans even more than Saracens.”

Pierre gulped the water and caught his breath.

Brychan tried again. “Where was the auto de fé, the place of execution? Notre Dame?”

“No. The Île aux Javiaux. An island on the river. They brought him there from Gisors Castle.”

“Why there?”

“King Philip feared an uprising from the people. Some say de Molay was falsely accused.”

“God’s truth, he was. What else?”

“Another knight was to burn with him.”

“Who?”

“Guy D’Orléans, the Templar novice master. But he died under torture because he refused to name those who were the last initiated.”

Brychan whispered, “Oh, . . . no.” Master Guy had been his mentor when he was among the last novitiates. Now Guy had died protecting him. Enraged, Brychan grabbed Pierre and shook him like a ruckle of bones. “Tell me every detail or by the Blessed Virgin I will burn you alive now!”

“De Molay was chained to the stake. The firewood was . . .”

“Every detail! What kind of wood?”

“I don’t—green. Green wood.”

“Soaked wet to burn slow?”

“Yes.” He paused, remembering. “De Molay was strangely calm. When asked if he had any last request, he asked only that his hands not be tied so he could clasp them in prayer.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Ursus crossed himself.

“What then?”

“When the flames grew highest de Molay spoke loudly so that all might hear.”

“What did he say?”

“De Molay called upon King Philip and Pope Clement to face God within a year.”

“The exact words! What language?”

“French, of course.”

“No! Think, priest!” Brychan jerked him closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did he speak any Latin?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. “Yes, some phrases. But I don’t. . . .”

“Did he repeat the word confutatis?” Brychan enunciated. “Con-fu-ta-tis?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Thrice.”

Brychan shoved him backward and Pierre landed hard on the ground. Certain he was to die; he crossed himself and covered his eyes.

Brychan looked at Ursus. “The Confutatis curse. There’s going to be a new Pope. And King.”

Sara stared in awe at the light in Brychan’s eyes.