The Templar Detective and the Satanic Whisper Read online

  THE

  TEMPLAR DETECTIVE

  AND THE

  SATANIC

  WHISPER

  A TEMPLAR DETECTIVE THRILLER

  J. ROBERT KENNEDY

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  BOOKS BY J. ROBERT KENNEDY

  Please click here for the intended reading order.

  * Also available in audio

  The Templar Detective Thrillers

  The Templar Detective

  The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress

  The Templar Detective and the Sergeant's Secret

  The Templar Detective and the Unholy Exorcist

  The Templar Detective and the Code Breaker

  The Templar Detective and the Black Scourge

  The Templar Detective and the Lost Children

  The Templar Detective and the Satanic Whisper

  The James Acton Thrillers

  The Protocol *

  Brass Monkey *

  Broken Dove

  The Templar’s Relic

  Flags of Sin

  The Arab Fall

  The Circle of Eight

  The Venice Code

  Pompeii’s Ghosts

  Amazon Burning

  The Riddle

  Blood Relics

  Sins of the Titanic

  Saint Peter’s Soldiers

  The Thirteenth Legion

  Raging Sun

  Wages of Sin

  Wrath of the Gods

  The Templar’s Revenge

  The Nazi’s Engineer

  Atlantis Lost

  The Cylon Curse

  The Viking Deception

  Keepers of the Lost Ark

  The Tomb of Genghis Khan

  The Manila Deception

  The Fourth Bible

  Embassy of the Empire

  Armageddon

  No Good Deed

  The Last Soviet

  Lake of Bones

  Fatal Reunion

  The Resurrection Tablet

  The Antarctica Incident

  The Special Agent Dylan Kane Thrillers

  Rogue Operator *

  Containment Failure *

  Cold Warriors *

  Death to America

  Black Widow

  The Agenda

  Retribution

  State Sanctioned

  Extraordinary Rendition

  Red Eagle

  The Messenger

  The Defector

  The Delta Force Unleashed Thrillers

  Payback

  Infidels

  The Lazarus Moment

  Kill Chain

  Forgotten

  The Cuban Incident

  Rampage

  Inside the Wire

  The Detective Shakespeare Mysteries

  Depraved Difference

  Tick Tock

  The Redeemer

  The Kriminalinspektor Wolfgang Vogel Mysteries

  The Colonel’s Wife

  Sins of the Child

  Zander Varga, Vampire Detective Series

  The Turned

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Table of Contents

  The Novel

  Author's Note

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Acknowledgments

  Don't Miss Out!

  Thank You!

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  For Wessel Gordon.

  “I do not fear Satan half so much as I fear those who fear him.”

  Saint Teresa of Avila

  “The will is a beast of burden. If God mounts it, it wishes and goes as God wills; if Satan mounts it, it wishes and goes as Satan wills; Nor can it choose its rider... the riders contend for its possession.”

  Martin Luther

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is the eighth novel in this series, and for those who have read the others and embraced these characters as so many of you have, please feel free to skip this note, as you will have already read it.

  The word “detective” is believed to have originated in the mid-nineteenth century, however, that doesn’t mean the concept of someone who investigated crime originated less than two hundred years ago. Crime long predated this era, and those who investigated it as well.

  The following historical thriller is intended to be an entertaining read for all, with the concept of a “Templar Detective” a fun play on a modern term. The dialog is intentionally written in such a way that today’s audiences can relate, as opposed to how people might have spoken in Medieval France, where, of course, they conversed in French and not English, with therefore completely different manners of speaking, and of addressing one another. For consistency, English phrasing is always used, such as Mister instead of Monsieur. This does not mean they will be speaking to each other as rappers and gangsters, but will instead communicate in ways that imply co
mfort and familiarity, as we would today. If you are expecting, “Thou dost hath offended me, my good sir,” then prepareth thyself for disappointment. If, however, you are looking for a fast-paced adventure, with plenty of action, mystery, and humor, then you’ve come to the right place.

  Enjoy.

  PREFACE

  During the crusades, a number of monastic orders were formed, the most famous of which were the Knights Templar. There were other orders as well including the Knights Hospitaller, the Lazarists, and many more.

  While in the Holy Land, they fought the same enemy, but as their numbers grew, so did their rivalries. Power, wealth, jealousy, influence. These were but a few of what came between knights sworn to serve God and their Lord Jesus Christ, as they were, after all, men, with all their flaws, no matter how pure of heart they struggled to be.

  The conflicts between the orders were often on an individual basis, with fisticuffs in the streets, but more critically, the rivalries became political, fought in the royal courts throughout Christendom.

  So, for them to unite in a common cause, the threat they faced must truly be dire.

  Like a battle against Satan himself.

  1 |

  Outside Gien, Kingdom of France

  AD 1298

  Perrot Roussel prostrated himself on the floor of the large chamber, his face pressed into the hard rock as those around him did the same. The cavern carved out of the mountains near his home by forces unknown reverberated with terrifying incantations spoken in what he could only assume was Latin, a language he only heard at church but had never learned—the Church didn’t want its flock capable of reading the Bible. That was left to the priests that guided them spiritually.

  Priests who guided him no more.

  He hadn’t been inside a church since last year. Instead, every Sunday he came here, and each week more of the villagers attended with him. They had no choice. Satan held dominion here, and it was he whose voice they now heard, a terrifying, demonic rumble unlike anything he had ever experienced nor imagined. And the words he and those surrounding him repeated over and over sickened him.

  “Satan is my master, and I pledge my soul to him.”

  Perrot was a God-fearing man, always had been and thought he always would be. Yet here he was, worshiping the Devil, though not by choice. None of them were here by choice. Satan had stolen their children one by one and demanded dominion over their lives in exchange for their safe return someday. He would do anything for his son, even burn in hellfire for eternity, but they had been given an out.

  Tribute and recruitment.

  Everyone here donated a portion of their crops, a portion of their wares, depending on what they did for a living. One tenth, the same as the Church demanded. At least here it served a purpose other than supporting the Church—it was saving their children’s souls as well as their own. Unfortunately, just as with the tithe the Church demanded, the tribute was breaking him financially. At least with the Church, when you were unable to pay, you were just frowned upon and encouraged to make it up. Here you had no choice.

  Tribute must be paid.

  He would never forget when his good friend Jeban had been unable to pay. He had pleaded with those who served Satan in this realm for mercy. He had nine mouths to feed and that 10% was something he could never afford to give up otherwise his children would starve. The following week, Jeban’s missing son lay on the altar at the front of the chamber.

  Dead.

  It had been heartbreaking, horrifying, and terribly effective. No one had missed a payment since. Everyone came with something, no matter how small, and this satisfied God’s fallen angel. There was no accounting, as long as something was paid in tribute.

  The final words were spoken and the voice of the dark under-lord fell silent. The vibration in the floor as he spoke from his domain below them settled and everyone rose. He brushed off then retrieved his purse from under his robes, carrying the tribute gained from the sale of one of his prized cows. He had been forced to sell her before he would have wanted, but he had nothing left to give, nothing left to sell. She was smaller than she should have been, which meant a lower price, a price already hurt by the fact there were few left with any money in his or the surrounding villages. Everyone was hurting, though many didn’t know why, many not yet forced into the circle of Hell he now found himself in.

  But they would soon be drawn in.

  It was inevitable.

  Satan was all-powerful and God had abandoned them, for if He hadn’t, surely He would never let such evil reign over so much innocence.

  2 |

  Unknown Location, Kingdom of France

  Adam Bouvet slowly walked the long row of converted horse stalls. Each held four lost souls, children who now belonged to his master. His master. He shivered at the thought. The first time he had heard his master’s voice, it had shaken him to his core, everything he had ever heard in church, anything he had ever doubted, was instantly truth. The Devil was real. Evil walked among them, and only the purest of heart were safe from the dark one’s influence.

  Something he wasn’t.

  He wasn’t a good man. He never had been, and was likely condemned to burn in Hell for eternity for what he had done on God’s creation. So, he had capitulated. He hadn’t even bothered protesting. There was no point. If he were to suffer eternal damnation, defying Satan while alive was foolish—it would only make his punishment all the more harsh. Perhaps in serving him, he might be granted some small mercy in the afterlife.

  Yet none of that made his task any easier. He and the others here like him were condemned to watch over the child prisoners, an ever-growing number, each child taken to be groomed as one of Satan’s future soldiers. And as the evil one’s power spread across the land, new children arrived daily. What was remarkable was that no one had noticed, no one had noticed the growing darkness, no one had noticed the evil spreading throughout the kingdom.

  No one was fighting back.

  But was there any way to fight back? This was Satan. The only one who could beat him would be God Himself, and if God were allowing this to happen, surely it was punishment for man’s sins. Could this be the end time spoken of by his boyhood priest? Could this be the beginning of Armageddon where there would be one final battle for the souls of mankind and the righteous would be raised into Heaven to enjoy paradise at God’s side while those like him were condemned for eternity?

  The thought gave him nightmares. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he first heard that voice rumbling through the cave, a portal to Hell that allowed Satan to not only recruit the innocent, but communicate with those who served him in the realm he was forbidden to tread upon.

  Bouvet didn’t want to be part of this, not really, but he was hedging his bets, serving the evil one in the hopes of a better damnation, while secretly praying God would win out in the end. He was on the wrong side of this, of that there was no doubt, and he should do something to fight on the side of good, but who was he? He was a petty thief and nothing more. He had picked the wrong pocket and had been caught and thrown in a jail far worse than what these children enjoyed. He and several others had been plucked from the hellhole they had been suffering in and taken on a long carriage ride with no windows, then shown into a cavern lit with torches, an altar at the far end, the surface large enough for a grown man to lay upon. It had been terrifying, but then came the voice. He shivered and his chest ached, for he knew what so few did.

  Evil did walk among us.

  Satan was real.

  And he served him.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, standing in front of the first stall he was assigned, and gathered himself. His terror was one thing, but that written on the faces of the children he was now about to see was something far worse. He wasn’t a good man. He had seen things. But these were innocent children. They had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve this.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  He smacked his walk
ing stick against the stall, several startled yelps the response. He opened the gate, revealing the smaller cages inside, stacked two-by-two, four sets of wide, terrified eyes peering out at him, their cheeks stained with tears, their bodies covered in filth. It was heartbreaking even to him, and he had always considered himself one who was unconcerned with such things.

  “All right, everybody up! Clean out your beds then line up for breakfast. You have a busy day ahead serving your master.”

  He unlocked the cage, swinging the door open, freeing the four boys from their personal prisons. They set to work cleaning their stall, a daily ritual made all the more necessary by the fact it was four humans here rather than a single horse. There was something about the stench of human excrement that was far more disgusting than anything a horse produced.

  He moved on to the next stall, rapping on the gate before opening it. Three sets of eyes peered out and he frowned, stepping forward and rapping on the fourth cell. “Wake up!”

  Nothing.

  Another rap.

  Still nothing.

  He took a knee and bent over, peering inside, and cursed. The cage was empty. He stood and tested the locked gate that covered all four cells. It swung open and he cursed again. “Who opened this?”

  Nobody answered, all three of the remaining prisoners scurrying to the rear of their cells and out of sight. He examined the lock closer and shook his head as he realized what had happened. The four cells, stacked two-by-two, were constructed of wood. The metal gate across the front was bolted to the wood on one side, with the lock attached to a ring bolted to the other. That piece of wood where the ring was attached was dangling freely, still connected to the lock. The wood was broken, and since it was newly constructed, it wasn’t from rot or fatigue.

  He grabbed the hanging piece, examined it closely, then got back down on a knee, peering into the cell of the missing prisoner. A small stone lay on the floor, one edge of it chipped away into a crude blade used to saw at the wood from inside. He gently ran it across his palm: It was dull. It must have taken days, if not weeks of effort, done at night when the guards were few and mostly sleeping on duty.

  This was bad.

  He stabbed a finger at the three remaining children. “You three stay here!” He stepped out of the stall, closing the gate, then turned to Raimbaut, the other guard assigned to this particular barn. “One of the prisoners is missing.”