“You are, if anything, well versed in Templar history,” Caedmon remarked.
“Hey, I’ve been boning up.” Lovett cackled softly. “Get it? Archaeologist.” He patted his chest in a “Me, Tarzan” kind of way. “Boning up.”
“It’s an intriguing theory,” Caedmon continued, ignoring the shtick. “But without more proof, it’s thin gruel.”
“Personally, I think the whole story is ludicrous,” Edie said, adding her two cents. Figuring that was the real dollar value of the Templar treasure.
“Hey, this isn’t some pie-in-the-sky crackpot theory. I’ve got the proof. Maps, artifacts, archival records. I’ve devoted the last year of my life to following the Templars’ trail.”
“Mmmm.” Pursing his lips, Caedmon cocked his head to one side. Edie could see that he was mulling it all over, giving serious consideration to the story just told.
And that had her worried. Couldn’t Caedmon see that Jason Lovett was a Templar wannabe? He probably liked to dress up in chain mail and pretend he was a medieval knight.
“Where exactly in the New World did the Templars hide their treasure trove?” Edie made no attempt to hide her skepticism.
“I’m pretty certain the Templars made landfall at Newport, Rhode Island. From there, they moved inland, setting up a colony about twenty miles west of Newport. I partially excavated the site. Looks like some sort of massacre took place. That said, I’m not exactly certain where they hid the treasure.” Not nearly as cocky as he had been, Lovett turned toward Caedmon, a beseeching look on his face. “This is where your expertise would come in handy. I found some Templar symbols carved onto a boulder. I think it’s a signpost or maybe a secret code. Since you’re a Templar expert—” The archaeologist stopped in midsentence. Bug-eyed, he teetered unsteadily on his feet.
“Are you all right?” Caedmon solicitously inquired.
Still swaying, the archaeologist frantically reached behind him. Like a man trying to scratch his back, but not quite able to reach the right spot. “The pret-ty boy b-bastard . . .”
Without warning, he lurched, toppling the projection screen as he fell, face forward, onto the parquet floor.
An instant later, Edie screamed, horrified to see a jeweled knife hilt protruding from Jason Lovett’s back.
CHAPTER 7
“Good God!” Caedmon bellowed, shocked beyond belief.
Jason Lovett had just been felled by an assassin’s dagger.
Craning his neck, he glimpsed a dark-haired man sprinting toward the exit at the back of the reading room. A lone assassin.
Caedmon turned to Edie. “Call the police! And whatever you do, don’t leave this room until they arrive.” Orders issued, he dashed toward the rear exit.
“Where are you going?” Edie yelled at his backside.
He made no reply, the portcullis about to come crashing down. The assassin had at least a five-second lead, the man having already vanished from the reading room.
Charging through the back doorway, Caedmon burst into an interior hallway, immediately brought up short. Paneled in dark wood punctuated with elaborately framed portraits of Thirty-third Degree Freemasons, the picture gallery had about it a claustrophobic eeriness. Particularly since, other than the immortalized Masons, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
“The bastard only had two choices, right or left,” he muttered, silently cursing the fact that the killer was so fleet of foot.
Instinct told him the assassin would steer clear of the banquet hall to the right, where the nattering lecture-goers were still availing themselves of free refreshments. Why risk being tackled to the ground by an overzealous onlooker?
Hoping his instincts proved correct, he tucked into a runner’s pose, taking the road less traveled to the left.
At the end of the hall, he veered in the direction of the polished marble stairs that led to the atrium. Unless he hurried, the bastard would soon be clear of the building.
Taking the steps two at a time, he grabbed hold of the brass banister to keep from falling on his face, leather soles slipping on the smooth surface, his shoes not designed for a foot race.
At the top of the staircase, he swung to the right. Peering through the granite-columned corridor that framed either side of the spacious atrium, he sighted the front exit and the lone security guard manning his station at the door, unaware of the tragedy that had just occurred below deck.
About to summon the guard, the shout snagged in his throat, stifled as he caught a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye.
He pivoted just in time to see one side of a double door silently swing shut.
Is the wind in that door?
Caedmon stared at the closed door panel, wondering if a trap had just been set. Wondering if Lovett’s assassin was the wind that blew shut the swinging door.
“Only one way to find out,” he murmured, stepping forward.
CHAPTER 8
“Somebody! Quick! I need a doctor!” Edie Miller hollered, dropping to her knees and scrambling across the downed projection screen to reach Jason Lovett’s side.
Oh God. Is Caedmon really chasing a cold-blooded murderer? What if the killer has a gun? Or another knife? Or is a martial arts—
Caedmon is okay, she silently affirmed. He’d been trained as a spy. Which meant he knew how to handle himself in a dangerous situation.
A paunchy middle-aged man rushed into the reading room.
Edie didn’t know if it was the blood, the sprawled body, or the jeweled knife hilt, but the first responder skidded to an abrupt halt, his cell phone limply plastered against his cheek. “What the—!”
“Stop gawking and start dialing! Tell the emergency operator that a man’s been stabbed at the House of the Temple on Sixteenth Street,” she instructed, having made the assumption that, like most people caught up in an emergency, his brain just turned to mush. Then, hoping to avert yet another catastrophe, she said, “After you make the call, I need you to corral everyone into the banquet hall until the police arrive. The killer is still on the loose.”
The man’s shock instantly morphed into visible fear. “But I . . . I’ve got a w-wife and two k-kids. Why do I have to be hall monitor?”
“Just do it!” Edie screeched, on the verge of lurching to her feet and delivering a heavy-handed slap to his face. “If this man dies, it’ll be on your head!”
The guilt trip worked; the man was jabbing away at his cell phone as he spun on his heel and ran out the door.
Just then, Jason Lovett, amazingly still conscious, rolled from his stomach to his side. The movement cost him, the archaeologist gasping for breath.
“Can I get you anything?” Belatedly realizing it was a stupid question, Edie brushed a hank of blond hair away from his face.
His hair was so soft. Baby fine. Maybe because he was just that, a baby. Somebody’s baby. A mother’s beloved son.
Her eyes welling with tears, Edie placed her hand against Lovett’s flushed cheek, willing him to stay alive.
Staring at her with a pain-racked expression, he found the strength to weakly whisper, “Aqua sanctus . . . aqua sanctus.”
“I . . . I don’t speak Latin,” she sputtered, not even sure that was the right language. “You need to—Of course! Aqua means water. You want a drink of water.”