Twist of Time, page 3
As Thomas continued talking, Methodius pictured the $500,000 in planned renovations fading before his eyes. He interrupted, “Brother Thomas, you must do everything possible to help the police recover the diary. Under no circumstances do we want to alienate Dr. Winslow Fallon.”
After they left the diner, Kate decided not to go to the precinct. They were talking easily, which sometimes changed in official surroundings. She decided to drive to the bay. It was a perfect day and traffic was light, much like their mood: two people chatting instead of a witness interview.
As they talked, she became aware how different he was from the men she knew—mostly cops, detectives, a PI or two, and the occasional lawyer. Thomas was articulate, intelligent, and, though she would have denied noticing, attractive.
When she turned off the 101, in the mirror she noticed a dark sedan hanging three back. It was switching to whatever lane she took. She changed lanes again, and so did the car. But when it suddenly turned off at an exit, she decided not to mention it.
It was a decision she would soon regret.
CHAPTER TWO
The Santa Barbara wharf was less crowded than usual. Kate and Thomas sat on a bench savoring the ocean breeze with its heavy tang of salt. They watched a gaggle of brown pelicans disdainfully strut among a group of tourists.
“Thomas, I sometimes try and get another viewpoint in a homicide. You are unusually familiar with this case. Do you have any questions?”
“They may sound dumb.”
“My dad, a second-generation cop, said the only dumb question is one you’ve asked before.”
“Smart man. Okay. Since you don’t have any witnesses, what happens next?”
“Find the diary; it is our case. Without the diary as critical evidence, there’s no indictment. No DA would touch it. There are a large number of suspects. Since Fallon obviously didn’t kill his own courier, he is eliminated. Given the diary’s history of homicides, some of them must be connected. That means more leads.”
“How do you keep track of all that?”
“Frankly, I try to think like a dog.”
“A dog?”
“My dad’s first partner as a cop was a German Shepherd named Shotzie. She taught him a lot. For example, when a dog enters a crime scene their nose also tells them information about the previous twenty-four hours. If I could do the same, I’d know how many people had been there, where in the crime scene they went and what they touched. Most of all, I’d instantly recognize them by their scent if we met, though I’d never seen them before. Homicide detectives spend a lot of effort trying to get the same results. First rule—think like the perpetrator.”
“Then why would this perpetrator dismember Denise Hollander’s head and hands to prevent identification, then leave the body on a trail in a public park where it could easily be discovered?”
“That was our first break. I think they goofed when they dumped the body at night. You saw the location; where you enter on that dirt road it appears you’re in the woods. Actually, it’s been a make-out spot since I was in high school. Lots of traffic. Whoever killed her doesn’t know the area. That means they’re from out of town and the murderer isn’t some local soccer mom killing out of boredom.”
“They followed the courier here?”
“And killed her. Now, I have a question. You said the diary might be fake?”
“Fake, or genuine, it is brilliant. Brychan was a linguistic genius. He wrote sections of the diary in four Medieval languages—English, French, Latin, and Gaelic. Fallon hired a team of translators to work on it. But he kept the Gaelic separate; that was to be my job.”
“Why was the Gaelic different?”
“Medieval Gaelic is the hardest; it contains the most critical information.” Thomas opened his wallet, took out a note, and unfolded it. “Brychan left a seven-hundred-year-old clue in English. Fallon sent me a copy.” He handed it to her.
Kate read it aloud, stumbling over several words.
Beefor ye cross three werriors stand
Ant gurds ye last one of our band
Luves face schining shews ye wey
A werriors measure ends ye lai
She gave him a look. “This is English?”
“Middle English, around the time of Chaucer. Spelling was not yet uniform, but you can make sense of it phonetically. Three warriors stand before the cross guarding something hidden among a band or group.”
“Boy, did I miss that.”
“Then the last two lines are rhyming verse. ‘Love’s face shining shows the way; a warrior’s measure ends the lay.’ A lay is a narrative poem. This is like having the last piece of a puzzle but nothing that came before. Tricky?”
“Very. Obviously, the diary is a lot more than just evidence in a homicide.”
The mountain road up to the monastery was a run of narrow tight turns with a steep drop-off on one side to a ravine below. The tires squealed in protest as Kate cornered the curves. Thomas nervously glanced at her.
“My dad had connections in Hollywood with the top stunt driver’s school. For my high school graduation, I was given a course in high-performance driving.”
“I can’t decide whether to pray or jump.”
Kate laughed; he was easy to talk with. Her reputation for bluntness often caused critical evaluation reports from her superiors. She had a low tolerance for fools, whether smart-ass perps, difficult witnesses, or fellow cops. She had even tangled with a judge or two, which once cost her ten days in jail for contempt of court. At the LAPD, her fellow detectives referred to her as “BB” for brass balls. Though she pretended to be irritated, she liked it. Perhaps in order to overcompensate, she often wore skirts and heels on the job. She kept a change of clothes in her car trunk as the situation required.
Thomas was enjoying their rapport but found her attractiveness disturbing. Once in mid-sentence he found his eyes locked on her lovely legs. He forced himself to look away. It was a feeling he had not experienced in nearly two years. Why now?
At the crest of the mountain, Kate pulled in the parking lot of the monastery, passing a sign that said Saint Joseph’s Anglican Celtic Order. With its all-white Spanish-style architecture it looked like a Catholic convent, which it once was. After Thomas got out of the car, there was an awkward pause.
“Thomas, I have to ask. Why would any man in this twenty-first century become a monk and live in a monastery?”
“Kate, that same question has been asked for over fifteen hundred years since the first Christian monks.”
“In a convent, I wouldn’t last a week.”
She gunned the engine, waved, and drove away.
On the drive back, she was irritated by the paradox. There had been no interest in a man since her tortuous divorce. Am I becoming attracted to a religious eunuch? she wondered. The only man safer than a monk was either gay or dead. She made a mental note to call her therapist, Dr. Ruby Stein. Kate could already hear her laughing.
The two Templars and the Gypsy woman made camp under lofty towers of evergreen sighing in the cold north wind. Brychan was watching her as she moved about cooking their meal. She had told them her name was Sara, and that she was born in a caravan at Cádiz, Spain. She was preparing a stew of dried lentils with blood sausage and a winter hare that Ursus shot with his bow. From her spice bag she added wild onion, garlic, Spanish peppers, and black truffles. Brychan and Ursus shared an uneasy look: they believed truffles were poisonous, like most mushrooms. Sara searched for bread in the Templars’ food pack. She unwrapped a damp linen bundle containing a rock-hard end of rye with a beard of black mold. Brychan stopped her before she threw it away.
“That’s not food. It’s for dressing wounds.”
“Wounds? How?”
“Put the mold next to the wound and wrap it. Leave it two days, then do it again.”
Sara wondered how anyone could believe such filth was medicine. She said a silent prayer that if she were injured, neither knight would attempt to treat her. She even heard that Gadjay kept dogs in their houses. All Roma dogs stayed outside unless they were sick. At night they ringed the camp—perfect lookouts. It was almost impossible to surprise a Roma campsite.
Brychan had seen few Gypsies; they had yet to reach the British Isles in great numbers. Arriving in France but a generation ago, she told him that they called themselves Roma or Romany. “Gypsy” was what outsiders, the Gadjay, called them.
From his interest in languages, Brychan had heard that Romany was unlike any other. A mysterious people, Gypsies told fortunes and possessed healing ways with animals, especially horses. They also crafted peerless silver and leatherwork. Known for their cunning, to be tricked by them was to be “gypped.”
While she was cooking, Brychan talked with her. He was curious about how a Gypsy happened to be Christian. Didn’t they believe in witchcraft? Sara explained that the Roma arrived in France as Christian pilgrims under protection of the Holy Roman Emperor. They practiced their faith in their own way, retaining old traditions. Their patron, Saint Sara, was said to have been a servant to Mary Magdalene. Sara was named after her.
Brychan watched, fascinated, as she worked. Her raven hair matched ebony dark eyes; she was wondrously bloss: well-proportioned, with large breasts. When doing woman’s work, she moved gracefully; when riding a horse, she was gaynley as a man.
Ursus listened critically as they talked. Of all the orders in the Church the Templars were strictest about women. Her very presence violated their vows. A Templar must never be alone with a woman, private conversation with one was forbidden, and no woman could enter a Templar building or church without permission. To travel with one was unthinkable. Ursus feared that if they were discovered by another Templar they would be reported and made to serve the required year’s hard penance.
The men were hungry and their first bites were a surprise, delicious and hearty. Ursus, assuming Gypsy cooking would taste foul, could remember nothing so good in months.
The Templar rule at meals was to eat in contemplative silence or hear scripture read by a brother. But this day had brought sufficient evil, as noted in scripture, and must be resolved. Sara listened as they tried to reason through their situation.
After the robbery they had searched the baggage, salvaging whatever they could. The thieves took the VERITAS chest, the diary, and their horses. But they left behind clothing, food, weapons, even their purse of money. What thief didn’t steal money?
The robbers were traveling overland north, probably to Paris. But to follow with inferior horses would make catching them impossible.
To Brychan, the solution was to quit the trail, take a difficult overland route, and set an ambush.
Ursus was opposed. If they guessed wrong going overland, they could lose the robbers.
“Are you sure they are going to Paris?” Sara asked.
“It appears so,” Brychan answered.
“The Roma go to Paris every year before Lent to sell to the crowds. We know trails to avoid the King’s soldiers. You saved my life. I will lead you.”
Brychan looked at Ursus who was shaking his head. “Brother Ursus, we are pursuing them with cavalry horses. The thieves ride our German breed, which are unmatched for endurance. Once they know we are following, they need only release the slow packhorses. Then we would never catch them.”
Ursus understood horses better than anyone Brychan knew. In the Holy Land, the Bedouin who treated their horses like family, taught him. It was said that Ursus could follow a trail over trackless rock.
Ursus looked angrily at the woman: once again she was causing trouble, as was their way.
Brychan read his look. “Brother, the rule concerning women must be ignored when weighed against our mission. We must not fail.”
To avoid further argument, Ursus rose and moved beyond the firelight. He stared at the trees silhouetted against the starry sky and while listening to the whispering night, from long practice, slipped into prayerful meditation.
•••
Sherif Sir Gilbert de Bage ordered his men to halt and make camp. It was too dark to continue tracking by torchlight. Even the relentless Templars would be forced to stop.
He had intensified the pursuit when he found eight dead bandits in the forest. It did not matter that the Templars slaughtered outlaws who would have been hanged immediately if caught. King Philip’s bounty on Templars was paid in gold bezants. As High Sherif serving the Duke of Auvergne, Sir Gilbert could keep all bounty for himself. The bounty on two Templars was a small fortune.
When he began tracking the Templars, they had eight days lead. That changed when the sherif came across the bodies of four King’s Cavalry and an old Gypsy.
At first, Gilbert doubted they were connected. Why would two Templars kill a total of twelve men in two skirmishes when they could simply avoid fighting? The sherif, who well knew weapons and modes of combat, had carefully examined the dead. His experience told him almost as much about the fight as if he had witnessed it; their different blades marked each warrior’s action.
One Templar was extremely strong and a master of the two-handed broadsword. His first opponent was almost cut in half while mounted; another’s ribs were crushed beneath his mail; a third was gutted and beheaded—all by this same warrior’s powerful blade.
The second Templar, who slew the sergeant, had a sword that could pierce heavy mail; probably the new Toledo blade. They were expensive beyond any common soldier’s means.
No Templar is a mere horse thief, yet two on foot attacked and killed four mounted King’s cavalry and took their horses: proof they were either demons from hell or Zealotes. The sherif was surprised to discover that when he followed their trail, another set of tracks revealed the Templars also were tracking someone.
For three grueling days the sherif mercilessly pushed his men, closing the gap. The Templars were now but two days distant. They did not know they were being followed; surprise would give the sherif a critical advantage when they met.
Thomas was out early the next morning after the homicide. He was in town having just made a delivery of Monk’s Bread to the Community Food Bank. The job rotated among the monks and it was his turn.
The delivery truck was an ancient Econovan with a prima donna ignition that started on whim. After cranking easily that morning at the monastery, now when Thomas turned the key, it grunted, coughed, and died.
He got out and raised the hood without the vaguest idea what to do. Frustrated, he looked at the Saturday traffic passing by. He was offering a quick prayer when someone approached him from behind.
“Are you one of the Monk’s Bread people?”
As Thomas turned, he was slammed in the head by a hard blow and dropped to the ground. When he looked up, there was a dark sedan backing toward him.
Two men jerked him to his feet and shoved him toward the car.
“Police! Hands in the air!”
All turned to see Kate, shielded by the open door of an unmarked car, showing a badge and pointing an automatic.
One man hit Thomas with his handgun and he dropped to his knees. Then both men jumped into the waiting car and cut across traffic so that Kate could not fire because of the other cars. In seconds they were gone.
She rushed to Thomas.
“Don’t get up,” she said. “I’m calling the paramedics.”
Woozily, he managed to stand. “What are you doing here?”
She began dabbing his bleeding head with her handkerchief. “Yesterday, I thought we might be tailed, but who tails a cop? So, I followed you today to see if anyone was tailing you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I would look silly if I were wrong.”
“Next time, look silly.”
“I am so sorry.” His warm scent blended with the tang of lemon verbena from working the herb garden. She could almost taste him. “I’m taking you to the ER.”
“No, I’m okay.”
She saw he was going to be stubborn.
“Do you feel well enough to eat?” she said.
“Monks are always hungry.”
“Good. Fallon is flying in on his private jet to meet us for brunch.”
In a parked car half a block away, four men had watched the assault on Thomas. One of them, Sid Carver, swore. “Jeeeesus! How many people are after this monk?”
He touched instant dial on his cell. A voice said, “This is Victor.”
“Carver. Big problem. Before we could grab the monk two guys out of nowhere jumped him. Then a cop appeared, and they took off. A cop! What should we do?”
He held up the phone for the others to hear. There were several seconds of silence.
“Where is the monk now?” the voice asked.
“With the cop.”
“I’ll report it to Leo. He will definitely want to meet with you. Be ready.” The line went dead.
Carver, amazed, looked at the others. “That’s frigging unbelievable! I’ve never heard of Leo personally meeting with anybody.”
In a luxury suite at the Hilton off the 101 in Santa Barbara, Nora Pittman paced in irritation. Ravel Marinero, a man in his mid-forties, stood waiting impatiently. His dark olive face was born to have numbers under it on a police bulletin board. He wore a plastic windbreaker beaded with droplets still wet from a thundershower. His predator eyes followed her.
Nora, smoking a brown cigarette, moved through a maze of her Vuitton luggage strewn across the floor. She was in her mid-fifties and casually dressed in muted tans and browns. Some men would have found her attractive except for something in her eyes that cautioned trouble. It appeared when conversing with her: a lightning intelligence and direct questions.
“How do you know she was a cop?” she asked. “They usually work in pairs.”
“She flashed a badge.”
“Three of you, one of her, and you still didn’t snatch the monk?”
“She was a cop! You didn’t say the monk had police protection.”
