The Templar's Code (5 page)

“Good God!” Caedmon bellowed, shocked beyond belief.

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.

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.

“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.

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.”

Relieved that she’d correctly interpreted the request, she leaned forward, snatching Caedmon’s water bottle from the table. Hands trembling, she uncapped the bottle. Then, gently lifting Jason Lovett’s head, she placed the bottle to his lips.

Tersely shaking his head, he slapped the bottle out of her hand, splashing water down the front of his chest.
“Aqua sanctus!”
he hissed, this time more urgently.

“Which means
nothing
to me. Caedmon’s the one who speaks Latin.”

“You have to—” Grimacing, Lovett fumbled with a Velcro flap on his cargo pants.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, afraid he might cause greater harm. If such a thing was possible.

Lovett ignored the order, grunting as he ripped open the flap and shoved his hand into his pants pocket. A prescription bottle plunked loose, rolling a few inches on the parquet floor. Edie glanced at the label.
Xanax
. An antidepressant. Jason Lovett liked to pop pharm candy.

“The ambulance is on the way,” she told him, wondering how much longer Lovett could hold out. “We’ll have you at GW Hospital in a jiffy. It’s a straight shot down New Hampshire Avenue. Won’t take but a few minutes to get there.”

Again, Lovett fumbled with the flap on his cargo pants. Wincing, he raised himself up slightly, struggling to remove something from his pocket.

Edie reached over to help him—only to jerk backward when she saw the glint of a gun.

Caedmon pushed open the swinging door.

Aware that he might be walking into a trap, he cautiously advanced into a small reading room. Glass display cases lined one wall; a wooden table laden with stacked volumes dominated the center of the space.

He scanned the cozy jumble.
Marble busts of famed Greek philosophers. A stuffed bald eagle. A glass case displaying Abraham Lincoln’s death mask.
As near as he could tell, the room contained nothing but old books and morbid curiosities. Lovett’s assassin was nowhere in sight.

About to take his leave, his nostrils suddenly twitched, his olfactory senses detecting a scent other than old leather and aged paper.

Yes, he was certain of it, a faint scent of sandalwood clinging ever so gently to the molecules in the air.

He followed the scent.

Entering a two-story library, he approached an oversized desk nestled between two freestanding cabinets. A narrow staircase on his right led to a cantilevered catwalk suspended overhead.

The scent of sandalwood grew stronger.

No sooner did that thought take root than Caedmon heard a quick intake of breath—the only warning he had before the assassin lunged at him. Grabbing hold of the metal post that secured one side of the staircase to the floor, the other man catapulted his body into the air.

Before Caedmon could register what was happening, two leather shoe soles forcefully slammed against his chest. Hurled backward, his head violently swung to the right, his skull smashing into one of the cabinets, causing the imposing piece to totter precariously.

A nauseating bolt of pain instantly surged from his right temple all the way down his arm. He spat out a mouthful of blood, red spittle flying through the air, spattering the inlaid glass on the cabinet door. He staggered several feet. Proverbial stars erratically flickered. Disoriented, he heard a low cackle.

He shook off the pain.

Jaw clenched, Caedmon charged his attacker.

Quick on his feet, the other man grabbed a heavy bookend from the desk, hurling the gold-leafed monstrosity at Caedmon’s chest. He dodged to one side. Unarmed, he snatched the nearest item at hand—a brass lamp on a nearby end table. He roughly yanked the cord from the wall as he ripped off the lamp shade. Makeshift club in hand, he went on the offensive.

Bugger!
he silently cursed when the other man seized a pair of scissors from the desktop arsenal.

Mirthlessly smiling, the assassin came at him, the scissors aimed at his soft underbelly.

Tempted to go for a head shot, Caedmon, instead, swung the brass lamp at the killer’s right hand. Metal slammed against flesh, making a hideous sound.
Thwack!
Like a carrot snapped in two. The scissors clattered onto the floor.

“Argh!”
the assassin bellowed.

Galvanized into action, Caedmon made a quick, left-handed grab, wrapping his fingers around a suede-clad arm. Snarling, his adversary parried with a vigorous knee jab. A direct hit to the kidneys.

Caedmon grunted. Swallowed back a mouthful of stomach bile. The assassin pulled free from his grasp, dashing up the staircase that led to the second-story catwalk. Gasping for breath, he gave chase, clambering up the narrow flight of steps. At the top he saw a flash of brown suede; the assassin was some twenty feet ahead of him on the catwalk. Ten feet beyond that, the catwalk dead-ended.

Tightening his grip on the brass lamp, Caedmon slowed his step, the game finally drawing to a finish. Cornered, the assassin stood with his back to him.

“Why did you kill Jason Lovett?”

The question met with a soft chuckle.

“Do you find that amusing?”

“I find this entire situation amusing,” the assassin replied—just before he vaulted over the railing.

In stunned amazement, Caedmon watched the other man sail through the air, nimbly landing on his feet.

“Bloody hell!”

Flinging the brass lamp aside, Caedmon ran down the staircase. Heart pounding in his ears, he headed for the atrium, bursting through the swinging double doors just in time to see Lovett’s killer run past the abandoned security station.

Still determined to catch the bastard, Caedmon raced across the atrium and out the front door.
Too late!
The assassin had already descended the flight of steps and was sprinting toward an idling bus.

His energy flagging, Caedmon gracelessly charged down the granite stairs.

By the time he reached the thirty-third step, the assassin was already onboard, the coach doors pneumatically closing behind him. An instant later, the vehicle pulled away from the curb. Rushing forward, he swung his arms above his head, signaling the vehicle. The stone-faced driver didn’t give him so much as a sideways glance.

“Shag it!”

Furious, Caedmon banged his palm against the side of the departing coach. In the far-off distance he heard the blare of multiple sirens.

Having seated himself at the rear of the bus, the assassin calmly turned and looked at him.

Caedmon returned the impudent stare, imprinting the man’s face on his memory—dark shoulder-length hair, wide-set brown eyes, a proud nose, slightly pouting full lips. Expecting coarse, even loutish, features, he was taken aback by the assassin’s physical beauty.