The Templar Detective and the Satanic Whisper
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
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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.”