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They would need to be buried, eliminating any trace of foul play. This place itself might prove problematic but, to his knowledge, only a handful of people within the knights knew of the secret panel, and the inner chapel was almost never visited. Kastor was buried deep in the ground, gone for the ages. These two corpses required a similar fate.
Which was why he’d had a shovel left behind.
He stepped over, grabbed it, then tossed it into the pit.
He had to return to Rome.
Thank goodness there was one final knight still around to clean up the mess.
* * *
Cotton heard Gallo’s voice as he gave thanks, then said the Nicaean Creed. Two sharp barks signaled gunfire, followed by what sounded like dragging across parched ground. He’d already determined that the pit was bell-shaped, its walls flaring out the farther down they went, with the lower circumference much wider than the top. He’d also noticed that the pit’s floor was not hard, like the ground above. Instead, it had the consistency of freshly turned earth.
He looked up.
An arm hung over the top edge.
He eased himself to one side using the pit’s flanged shape to his advantage. A body fell down from above and smacked the ground.
Followed by another.
He recalled that the bottom had not been visible from above. Too much darkness. So he ventured a glance upward and saw not Pollux, but Kastor Gallo staring down, a gun in his right hand.
Revealing himself seemed like suicide. He’d just wait for the man to leave then use the rope and climb out.
Gallo vanished above.
He stared at the two corpses. Too much darkness existed to see their faces.
Something fell from above and embedded in the soft floor.
A shovel.
The rope began to head upward.
And disappeared.
The lights extinguished.
He stood in total blackness.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Luke drove down the coastal highway, speeding north toward a place called the Church of St. Magyar’s. Once he was out of jail, he’d contacted Stephanie, who told him where Malone had gone. She’d contacted the cathedral curator, who’d provided directions. He’d declined Hahn’s offer of assistance, deciding to keep the locals out of the loop. Better to hold everything close from this point forward, as there were too many unknowns in this free-for-all.
How many times had he sped down a black highway in the middle of the night? After dates. High school football games. Nights out with the guys. The terrain around him was nothing like the mountains of east Tennessee. Not much in the world compared to that sacred ground. He’d spent the first eighteen years of his life there and tried to go back whenever he could. Which wasn’t all that often. Those hills were rampant with high tales. Lots of myths, legends, and ghosts. His father had loved to tell the stories.
Like Old Skinned Tom.
A charming, handsome man who won over nearly every girl he came across, one day he set his sights on a beautiful married gal named Eleanor. They began seeing each other in secret, frequenting the local lovers’ lane. Of course, Eleanor’s husband found out and skinned Tom alive. Everyone believed that Tom’s bloody skeleton still roamed lovers’ lane, clutching a hunting knife, waiting to catch a cheating couple so he could teach them a lesson. Which seemed incredibly unfair of him, given the circumstances of his own death.
The apparition even had a song.
Have you see the ghost of Skinned Tom?
Bloody red bones with the skin all gone.
Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin on.
That it would. He felt a little bare-skinned and exposed at the moment, too. Running on empty, but at full throttle.
He turned off the coastal highway and headed inland, following the directions Stephanie had provided into a darkened valley. Ridges rose in the distance on both sides with few lights. He kept going on the straight stretch of blacktop. Ahead, off the shoulder, among a scattered stand of short trees, he spotted a parked car.
One he recognized.
He brought his vehicle to a stop and saw that he was right. Same car he’d used earlier. The same one Malone had apparently taken from the cathedral. He doused the headlights, shut off the engine, and stepped out into the night.
Malone was here and seemed to have decided on a stealth approach. He decided to take the same option. He started off on foot down the road, keeping a watch out for vehicles in both directions. Cicadas chirped their earsplitting trill into the darkness. He was tired and could use some sleep, but he’d learned how to run on autopilot. He was actually good in that mode. Being barely thirty, a bit anxious, ambitious, and well trained certainly helped, too.
A couple of hundred yards away he saw the outline of a building up on a ridge and another car parked out front.
Had to be the chapel.
Its main door suddenly opened, revealing a splash of light and a person. The dark form walked to the car toting a bag and what looked like a folding chair, which was deposited inside. The form returned to the building’s door and the lights extinguished, as if a switch had been thrown. The car then drove off and did not head his way. Instead it turned in the opposite direction and disappeared down the highway, deeper into the valley, to the west.
His instincts smelled trouble.
He trotted to the building and approached the door. He tested the latch and discovered it was locked.
And no conventional lock.
Big. Heavy. Iron. Taking a friggin’ skeleton key.
He tested the oak panels.
Thick and solid.
No way he could force it open, and there were no windows. He had only one choice. So he ran back to the car and fired up the engine. He sped up the incline to the ridge and focused the headlights on the front door. He came close and stopped, nestling the front bumper to the oak.
Stephanie had told them that this building had been around for centuries. Malone was noted for his effect on historic spots, especially World Heritage Sites. It looked like he was about to join the club. He pumped the accelerator and drove the front end into the door, splintering it inward.
That was easier than he’d thought it would be.
He backed the car away, then shut off the engine and climbed out. Beyond the doorway he saw more black. With his hand he examined the wall just inside and spotted a switch, which he flipped activating a few scattered lights that threw off long streams of radiance illuminating a bare chapel with a gritty stone floor.
His eyes began a brisk, energetic scan of the interior.
Not a sound broke the silence.
The floor stretched maybe fifty feet ahead. He noticed a clear path in the grit leading from the doorway to an altar, then beyond. He stepped in and followed the path, which led to the opposite side and a circular apse.
Where it stopped.
Abruptly.
At the wall.
> Before him rose a stone half circle. Three panels, separated by moldings, limestone benches wrapping the semicircle along with a cornice at the top and a line of chiseled molding breaking the center. Had someone walked to here and sat on the bench? Possible. But not likely. The floor was relatively undisturbed except for the footpath to the main door.
He faced the curved wall and tapped it at places with his fist.
Solid.
Whatever there was to find had to be at the center panel. He traced the groove on either side with his fingertips.
Nothing unusual.
The cornice at the top was out of reach, the center molding possessed of no indentations. It was all one piece, carved from the stone. He sat on the bench and stared at the floor. Why not? He dropped to his knees and looked underneath. Nothing there, the stone bench supported by two corbels at either end.
Come on. This can’t be that hard.
He studied the corbels and noticed that they were curvy, extending from the wall to the end of the bench, supporting its weight. A notch existed from the corbel’s end to the stone wall. Maybe an inch. Not much more. He stuck his finger into the space on the right. Nothing. Then the left. And felt an indentation. Circular. With something in it. A button. He pushed. The entire panel shifted inward.
He stood, sucking in the whole Indiana Jones vibe.
He pushed the heavy panel, surprised at its balancing act. It took little effort to move a lot of rock. Blackness loomed beyond. He found another switch and activated more lights. A corridor led to another chapel, this one a bit creepy with a ton of statues and images. Like a visit to a stone Madame Tussauds. He noticed the altar, which had been desecrated with a hole in its lower center.
That seemed like Malone’s signature.
So he kept going, finding another door that led to spiral steps, leading down. He descended to the bottom and saw another light switch, which he activated. More lights sprang to life. He followed a narrow corridor into a room with a hole in the floor.
