Twist of Time, page 5
Right now, she needed help.
Det. Vicky Marroquin, a young forty, was the vivacious daughter of a Black mother and Latino father. She was the first non-Anglo woman on the Santa Barbara PD to make homicide detective. Vicky and Kate were Santa Barbara natives; both had gone to UCLA on scholarship. Vicky didn’t finish but dropped out her junior year to marry. Though Kate’s training and experience exceeded Vicky’s, they perfectly balanced each other. When they worked good cop, bad cop, it was two worse cops. They were in tune like the cliché: they could finish each other’s sentences.
During lunch at Jake’s diner with Vicky, Kate explained the situation.
Vicky shook her head; she didn’t like what she was hearing. “Let me be sure I understand. We search for the diary, we look for the monk, but we don’t tell Captain Starger what we’re doing?”
“Right.”
“Kate, fooling him is trickier than a cheating spouse. If something goes wrong. . . .”
“We could be fired.”
“Right.” Vicky shrugged. “Oh, hell. I’m in.”
“In your place I would have said no.”
“I almost did. What’s next?”
“Witnesses. We’ve got abduction in the middle of the night and the monastery neighborhood has very little traffic. Let’s hope for a roaming insomniac who saw something.”
“Hernandez in Traffic owes me. He’ll check the accident files. Kate, twelve hours gives them a big start. Your monk could be anywhere.”
“Yep. I’ll check private flights. Somebody on a gurney or with a team of bodyguards.”
Vicky’s instincts told her that Kate wasn’t telling her everything, but she said nothing.
Back at her desk in Homicide, Kate made a call to Baltimore PD Homicide because Fallon’s corporate headquarters were in Baltimore. She was looking for information on Gladys Pullman, the murder victim who worked with Fallon. After annoying minutes of being transferred several times she found the lead detective, Lt. Dan Swartz. Their rapport was immediate, cop to cop.
“Dan, I couldn’t find much information on Pullman’s case.”
“Not surprising. Fallon is a rotten piece of work. One of him in your life is enough.”
“What happened?”
“We did a routine investigation on the Gladys Pullman homicide for the first forty-eight. But you could smell cold case coming. Fallon did a number on the media and it died.”
“How did he pull that off?”
“Ever deal with a power player like Fallon? Money, contacts, politicians, and anything else he needs. He got the story buried. But I’ve got more in Gladys Pullman’s file that didn’t make the media. You want a copy?”
“I’ll swap you my firstborn, if I ever have one.”
After hanging up, Kate opened the courier Denise Hollander’s homicide file. She was fifty-eight, unmarried, and had been Fallon’s right arm. Her job was her life. There was data on her family—lots of nieces and nephews; she was the adored maiden aunt. For simply delivering the diary, Hollander was brutally murdered and mutilated. Kate felt a fresh rush of anger.
From the Hollander file she pulled her notes on Thomas’ interview and locked them in her briefcase. There would be no documentation on Thomas until she was ready.
But fear still nagged. How was Thomas taking it? He was physically strong and mentally tough; monks required self-discipline well beyond the average person. How long could he delay?
Thomas’ first sensation beyond pain was smell: fried frijoles. A headache hammered like his head was jammed sideways in a vice. He realized he had been drugged; the effects were raggedly hanging on.
With eyes blindfolded, he lay on his back on a narrow metal cot with a bare mattress that reeked of old urine. One wrist was cuffed to the cot’s iron frame; it barely gave when pulled.
He was aware of men’s voices speaking Spanish from somewhere behind a door. Their radio played constantly—salsa music and Spanish talk radio. The rancid fried bean smell was stifling.
Mexico? Or hell?
Drifting in and out, he prayed fragments of Psalm 91. The Lord is my refuge and my fortress . . . He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler . . . shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day . . .
Between prayers there was a collage of drug-sharpened images: Hollander’s mutilated body, Fallon’s droning obsessions, and especially the fascinating Kate Flynn. What was this attraction to her? Sexual repression fueled by monastic celibacy? For monks, that was a tiresome concept assumed by outsiders. But something about Kate beyond the sexual fascinated him, and that was much more dangerous.
Laughter from the next room jarred him back. Focus. Think. He was obviously abducted for one reason: to translate the diary. They blindfolded him so he could not identify them. Once it was removed for him to translate, he would see them. When he finished, they would have to kill him to avoid his identifying them in the courier’s homicide. He must delay, delay. Just as he sensed that his mind was working, he drifted off in another blissful haze.
That night in her apartment, Kate sat at the computer with Watson, her twelve-pound tomcat dozing cozily in her lap. This had become so routine that whenever she used the computer at home, she needed the comfort of Watson’s furry warmth. In the background, a Bach toccata by pianist Glenn Gould played in soft undertone. Kate usually had Bach playing whenever she was alone going over case material. It had been the background music of her life since college. To her, fugues with their intricate counterpoint were a musical metaphor of an ideal homicide investigation; CSI, DNA, ballistics, interrogation, autopsy, forensics—all fitting together with the precision of a Bach fugue.
Before she searched the Internet, she reviewed her notes about Thomas. Reading people was one of her strengths. She routinely made accurate assessments of witnesses, suspects, and perps. The FBI twice tried to recruit her as a profiler. She read Thomas as sophisticated and highly intelligent but with an unexpected naiveté. He had an appealing openness. What you saw was what you got.
On the Internet she found Thomas’ book, Merlin: Legend, Wizard, Saint. Reading the reviews, she understood why he wanted her to find out about him from different sources. The book was highly controversial. History buffs loved it; academics attacked it. The Atlantic published an article on the ensuing scandal in which Thomas claimed to have discovered an unknown document proving Merlin’s double life as pagan wizard and Christian bishop. It was dated from the late sixth century.
After questions were raised by some academics, lab tests proved the parchment was created no earlier than the eleventh century. It was traced to a notorious French master forger in the late 1700s.
When Thomas was being questioned for his PhD exam, the academic committee accused him of covering up the forgery to sell his book. Then, just days after the hearing, there was a personal tragedy. While Thomas was out of town at a conference, his wife, Lois, was killed in an automobile accident. Thomas’s closest friend, Royce, was driving the car. They were returning from a weekend at a mountain cabin. It was perfect tabloid fodder: “wife of controversial author dies during shack-up with his best friend.”
Now Kate’s interest was piqued and she continued searching. On another website she found a bizarre twist. An Enquirer stringer discovered that as an adolescent, Thomas was studied by the Rhine Institute, internationally known for research in the paranormal. Predictably, the tabloids branded Thomas “the psychic scholar,” which further damaged his image among his conservative peers. At the next committee hearing, the psychic issue was raised. Thomas refused to comment. Shortly afterward, he withdrew from the program.
Kate was dumbfounded. Thomas a psychic? She hadn’t the slightest belief in them. Psychics had been called in on two of her LAPD homicides. They couldn’t find their ass with a bloodhound and an anal compass.
She intuitively felt that nothing about Thomas was bogus, but his naiveté might make him easily deluded. She turned off the computer, poured a Stoli on ice, and curled up with Watson on the sofa, drinking and thinking.
The Templars and the Gypsy woman had been traveling since daybreak. Though Ursus agreed to let the woman guide them, he kept an angry silence. Sara was amused but dared not show it. Ursus was well named—he was prickly as a bear sow.
Brychan glanced at him. “Your mood is foul, Brother Ursus. May we know the reason?”
“It is the Gypsy’s fault that we were robbed.” Ursus spoke as if she were not there. “When we helped her, the robbers stole the chest. True?”
“True, Brother. But how could we refuse to help her?”
“If you have the sight, why didn’t you foresee that the robbers would steal the chest?”
Sara, astonished, looked at Brychan. He had the sight? Fortune-telling ran deep in Roma life. It was easy to fool the gullible Gadjay, but there were also readers who were truly gifted. Since the Church declared both the sight and witchcraft as heresy, why would God give the sight to a monk? Or was it the Devil’s gift?
Brychan answered Ursus. “The sight has its own ways. Like the wind, it touches and moves on.” He added, “It is said that only a fool reads for himself.”
“Then, what good is it?” Ursus spurred his horse and rode ahead to reconnoiter a thick growth of greenery for possible ambush.
“Sir Brychan, if you read fortunes, maybe you are part Roma,” Sara teased.
“No, I cannot read fortunes.” He was amused.
Sara watched Ursus disappear into the thick woods. Although the two men hardly needed to speak to communicate, there was an unease between them. Unlike some Templars she had seen who kept only the appearance of monastic life, both Brychan and Ursus seemed sincerely devout. Their differences did not lie there.
“You two are an odd pairing. Are all Templars so matched?” she asked.
Brychan did not answer; it was impossible to explain in a few words. His thoughts were drawn to that day months before, when a secret document from the Grand Master was smuggled from prison.
Deep in the Forêt d’Orient, the fugitive Templars, about fifty-odd knights, sergeants, and troopers were gathered at the appointed place. After the Order was destroyed by King Philip, unlike many who fled to different countries, this small band stayed behind in France on orders from Master de Molay. They were instructed to hide in the forest and rejoin him when he was freed from prison by order of Pope Clement, which might happen at any time. They had no choice. They could but survive, endure, and wait.
For seven arduous years, Templar iron-clad discipline had held them together. Living off the land, they were also helped by poachers and peasants from their own meager stores.
While King Philip’s soldiers scoured the country for the fugitives, the patrols did not venture far into the forest. The Templars, after years of combat in the Holy Land, had perfected Saracen ambush tactics. To be surprised by them meant death, for they could take no prisoners.
Now called together for a special meeting, the Templars arrived from their separate camps throughout the forest. A few defiantly wore their white mantles with the red Templar cross. In the breaking dawn light, they appeared as shadows in the heavy mist. The area was lit by a torch held by a raggedly uniformed sergeant. Friar Luke, still greatly revered, was wearing his Templar cleric’s green robe, now much frayed and patched.
The friar explained that two separate messages had been smuggled from the Grand Master in prison. He opened the first parchment and translated its two sentences out loud from Latin: “We have appointed Brother Brychan a Zealote. He is to be paired with Brother Ursus. Signed de Molay, Grand Master, by Brother John, scribe.”
No explanation was given.
There was astonished silence. Ursus looked in rage at Friar Luke as if he had written it.
All eyes watched Brychan who stared ahead at nothing. Though young, he was the best blade among them, save for Ursus. But, except for a few skirmishes with the King’s patrols, he was un-proven in combat.
Traditionally, Zealotes added to their ranks only proven veterans. Yet, Brychan was made a Zealote by special order of the Master. Known to all was the Templar maxim: “Zealotes answer only to Grand Master who answers only to Pope who answers only to God.”
Resentment hung like stinging smoke. Many of them would have sacrificed all to be made a Zealote. Brother Ursus’ eyes burned rage-hot. His last Zealote pairing was with Claude of Lorraine, whose combat legend nearly matched his own. When Brother Claude fell at Acre, in the Holy Land, he was pierced with five Saracen arrows before his final breath.
Ursus glared at Brychan. “A Zealote is a proven warrior. You don’t know enough to stay alive.” He spat and turned away in disgust.
In a quick move, Brychan’s dagger touched Ursus’ throat under the ear. Ursus slowly turned into the blade point. In warning, Brychan pressed, drawing a tiny drop of blood. He nodded to de Molay’s letter. “I am now a Zealote by order of the Grand Master. You will obey it or be defrocked—the rule for disobedience.”
The men watching were mute as mice. No one had ever pulled blade against Brother Ursus and lived. Brychan had drawn blood, a scratch the same as a slash.
All were witnessing the unthinkable: two Templar Knights about to kill each other in the presence of brothers. Since their founding in over two centuries, this had never happened.
Brychan and Ursus stood frozen like pointer and hare. Even with his throat cut, Ursus would quickly slay the young knight before dying. Brychan, for his part, faced a challenge that ended here or tainted all his days.
Slowly, Brychan raised his right-hand palm outward, waiting. If Ursus did the same and their hands interlocked, it would be the Zealote sign that they were paired.
Their eyes were unwavering as their palms touched; fingers then locked into a double fist. The iunctus manibus. It was the traditional silent vow. No matter their personal feelings, they now were sealed until death as paired Zealotes.
“Done,” Friar Luke said, and on their locked hands made the sign of the cross. Then he handed the second document to Brychan. “Tell no one except Brother Ursus.”
The Latin, as in the other letter, was written in the same scribe’s hand. Brychan read silently then nodded that he understood.
Friar Luke whispered. “The chest is at Holy Cross Cistercian convent.” He took the document back and held it to the sergeant’s torch. It flared, instantly curling to ash; flashpaper.
“When?” Brychan asked.
“Tonight.”
Brychan looked at Ursus whose eyes were blazing anger. Five years before, Ursus had been ordered by the Grand Master to kill Brychan if a certain prophecy he had dreamed was declared false—Holy Scripture’s penalty for false prophecy. Fortunately, the prophecy proved to be true and Brychan was spared. Now, in a fatal irony, they were bound together on a mission that surely must end in death.
Kate was early at her homicide desk after a sleepless night that a third Stoli didn’t remedy. She was sifting through traffic reports looking for a possible witness. The phone rang.
“Detective Flynn? Fallon. I can’t reach the monk.”
She had forgotten to tell him. “Dr. Fallon, Brother Thomas is missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“He was abducted from the monastery.”
“What! When?”
“Night before last.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“We’ve been rather busy here, Doctor.” She couldn’t tell him that the police also were not informed.
“That’s not acceptable!” There was an angry pause. “Let me be very clear, Detective. I expect to be kept informed on every detail.”
Kate bristled. “Dr. Fallon, why didn’t you tell me about Gladys Pullman? She personally worked for you, yet you never mentioned that the Baltimore police have an open homicide case on her which centers around you and your corporation.”
He was hesitant. “I . . . I didn’t think it was pertinent to this case.”
“Why does every dumbass think they can decide what is pertinent in a homicide? That is a police decision! Me. Understood?”
He ignored her insult; it would serve no purpose for them to quarrel. “I’m sorry, Detective. Frankly, it is very painful to talk about.”
“I am afraid we have to.”
“I’ll discuss it just once. But if you mention it again, I will personally make this case a nightmare for you.”
“No threats necessary. You’re calling the shots. Let’s talk.”
“Very well. I am sure it is no surprise that . . . I have few friends.”
She almost laughed. “Your honesty is refreshing.”
“My work and the few associates that I trust are crucial to me. Both Denise Hollander and Gladys Pullman were the closest. Dr. Pullman was my top research programmer. One night after working late at the lab she disappeared.”
“Disappeared, how?”
“She was abducted when walking to her car in our parking lot. She was never found.”
“Any ransom demand?”
“No. But a week later some of her clothing was discovered in the woods. It was covered in blood. DNA confirmed it was Dr. Pullman’s.”
“What was the motive?”
“Corporate espionage. Immediately, some of our most sensitive data appeared in the news media and on the Internet. With this development the police upgraded Pullman’s case to homicide.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Yes. I’m certain that a personal enemy is targeting me. Two of my closest associates murdered? Both work-related? Now you see why I put up the reward to get the killer. I want him; I will get him. I won’t wait for the bumbling police.”
“But Dr. Fallon. . . .”
“Keep me informed.” He hung up.
Kate scribbled a note. She leaned back, looking at what she had just written: What happened before the diary? Denise Hollander was murdered for the diary but Fallon’s associate, Pullman, was not. Something ugly was going on a full year before Fallon bought the diary and he was in the middle of it.
