Had he known that he would also be plunged into a dark void, he would not have done it; the ensuing guilt was unbearable. He’d always had a quick temper, never one to back down from a fight. But after Ari’s death, it took little provocation to incite a murderous rage.
The first time it happened, he’d been with an overly plump German who refused to pay the agreed-upon price. For nearly twenty minutes he’d been on all fours while the stout bastard huffed and puffed, enveloping him in the nauseating scents of sauerkraut and sausage. After the blitzkrieg, the Düsseldorf banker had the gall to say, “I had hoped for something better.” Infuriated, Saviour refused to let the insult go unanswered. Acting on a whim, he smashed the empty Riesling bottle against the hotel dresser and slashed the fat man’s throat. For the next week, he’d lived extravagantly on the wad of euros that he’d stolen from the dead man’s wallet. A new leather jacket. A pair of boots. A cashmere turtleneck sweater.
The German was followed to the grave by an Israeli tourist. Because of Ari’s death, they had to pay.
Just as the Brit would soon pay for having bested him.
CHAPTER 24
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Caedmon said as he raised the ceramic lid that covered the toilet tank.
Holding her breath, Edie looked inside.
Damn.
“Nothing but dank water and the standard plumbing apparatus.” Baffled, she glanced at the crucifix hanging above the toilet. “Jason Lovett did not hang that cross so he could pray while on the pot.”
“We must assume it’s a red herring.” Caedmon repositioned the lid back on the tank.
Unconvinced, Edie shook her head. “I don’t think so. We just haven’t followed the aqua sanctus clue to its logical conclusion. For starters: Where does the water in this tank go?”
Caedmon’s brow furrowed. “I imagine that it flows into the public sewer system.”
“Nope. You imagine wrong. Since this is a rural area, there isn’t a public water system. With every flush, all of the aqua sanctus in the toilet bowl goes to a septic tank, which”—she stepped into the bathtub so she could peer out the bathroom’s only window—“is almost always buried behind the house because, let’s face it, who wants a cesspit in their front yard?” She scanned the unkempt backyard visible on the other side of the smudged glass.
“And you think Lovett may have hidden his research notes near the septic tank?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Got a better idea?”
“Lovett was using the spare bedroom to store his excavating tools. I’ll grab a shovel and meet you in the back garden.”
Several minutes later, spade and pickax at the ready, they set out in search of the buried septic tank.
“I’m no expert, but most septic tanks have a hatch that’s visible aboveground,” Edie said, putting a hand to her eyes as she surveyed the surprisingly expansive lawn. “The goose grass is thick and the foxtail knee-high. Lovett obviously didn’t own a mower.”
“I suspect his preoccupation with the Templar treasure is the real reason for the overgrowth.” Caedmon jutted his chin toward the right side of the yard. “You search that half of the lawn and I’ll take—”
“Found it!” She pointed to an area approximately one hundred feet from where they stood. “See that plush patch of weeds? What do you want to bet Lovett’s bumper weed crop is being fertilized by the discharge from the septic tank?”
Caedmon slung both of the long-handled tools over his shoulder. “Your powers of observation are commendable. If this is indeed where Dr. Lovett buried his research notes, we should be on the lookout for signs of disturbed vegetation.”
“How can you be so sure that Lovett buried his notes?”
“It’s what I would have done.” Caedmon came to a halt at the edge of the thicket. “Ah! I see a clump of snapped thistles. Evidence that someone very recently traipsed through here.”
“Could have been a deer or other wild animal.”
“Only if their hooves were shod in lug-heeled boots,” he retorted with a smirk, pointing to a cluster of visible footprints. “This is newly turned soil. I suspect that Dr. Lovett stomped on the loose earth after he refilled the hole.”
A bluejay perched in a nearby tree cawed, the harsh sound eerily similar to a rusty gate swinging on a hinge. Spooked, Edie glanced at her watch. Fourteen minutes had lapsed since they first arrived at the cottage.
“Yes, I know; the clock is ticking,” Caedmon remarked, accurately reading her thoughts. Unlimbering the digging tools from his shoulder, he handed her the pickax. Then, firmly planting his leather shoe on top of the shovel blade, he forcefully pushed down. “Hopefully, our would-be fossor dug a shallow grave.”
He did. Steel struck metal in under two minutes.
“Eureka!” she exclaimed, going down on her haunches to better examine the upturned object. “Looks like a metal toolbox. Ooh! And it’s very heavy.”
Caedmon grasped the container’s handle. “I suggest that we take our booty back to the cottage.”
“Good idea.” Standing upright, Edie furtively glanced at the turquoise trailer. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I’ve got a hinky feeling that someone’s snooping on us.”
CHAPTER 25
Hansel and Gretel. Still mucking around Lovett’s cottage.
Tonto Sinclair lowered the binocs and set them on the dashboard. He’d parked the Ford F100 behind an abandoned single-wide. Out of sight. He figured that like the candypants foreigner who earlier trashed the joint, they were looking for buried treasure. White birds of an avarice feather. According to his buddy Bear Mathieson who ran the Gas ’N’ Go station, Hansel was an Englishman.
How fucking ironic was that?
’Cause anyone familiar with tribal history knew that it was the English motherfuckers who triggered the Narragansett demise. History 101. They came. They saw. They conquered.
In need of a smoke, Tonto reached for the pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket. With an impatient shake of the wrist, he loosened one from the pack and clamped his lips around the filter, sliding it from the pack. Another one of life’s little ironies, he mused as he clicked the lighter. Had it not been for a pack of smokes, he’d never have found out about Yawgoog. Or the treasure. Or what really happened when Verrazano and his knights made landfall.
It’d been hot as hell that July morning in ’03 when he pulled into the Charlestown smoke shop to buy a pack of Marlboros. He’d spent the previous night in the county lockup on a drunk and disorderly charge stemming from a verbal altercation that he’d had with a redneck who made the mistake of calling him a drunken, shiftless injun. The drunken part he owned up to; he had downed a twelve-pack of PBR. But shiftless, he wasn’t, having clocked fifty hours that week at the sawmill. His fuse short, he sought redress with the classic one-two sucker punch — jab-straight, then right-to-the-body.
The fuse wasn’t any longer the next morning when he staggered into the reservation smoke shop, foul mood courtesy of a thin, lumpy mattress, a bad hangover, and a flatulent cellmate. He’d just handed a fiver to the gal behind the counter when a trio of Rhode Island state troopers suddenly stormed through the shop door. Two of the uniformed bastards had their weapons drawn. The third had a snarling German shepherd on a lead. Lips curved in a malicious grin, the head trooper yelled, “Everybody! Hands where we can see them!”