Blood Sun (10 page)

Tom Gordon moved past his son into the main room, where late-afternoon sun caught the blemishes and smears on the small panes of glass in the French doors. Outside, trees morphed into silhouettes as sunlight dipped lower in the sky. Max’s dad sipped the mug of tea and watched the branches shudder in the breeze.

“What did Farentino say?” he finally asked.

It was easier talking to his dad when he wasn’t looking at him. Max told him everything, spilling the words out rapidly, wanting to rid himself of the poisonous thoughts. How Farentino’s love for Max’s mother eventually caused hatred for his father. How she had spurned their friend’s advances
and how the bitterness of that rejection finally oozed hatred in Farentino’s heart like an abscess weeping pus.

“You think I abandoned your mother?” his father asked with an edge of uncertainty at his own memory.

“He said you left her to save yourself. You were there. You were with her in the jungle, somewhere in Central America. I remember you coming home and telling me she’d died. Soon after that, you put me in Dartmoor High … and went away again.”

Tom Gordon shook his head, like a man unable to find his way out of a dense forest when daylight is fading, panic creeping up his spine and smothering any rational thought.

“No …,” he whispered, reaching for the edge of a chair.

Max, scared his dad was going to collapse, stepped forward to help him. “No!” his father suddenly commanded, and sat down carefully, as if his bones would shatter under the strain of movement. “Your mother was ill.… I remember … she fell so ill.…” The words tumbled from him as he tried to see the memory. “The jungle swallowed her. It took me days to reach the ocean, and our people got me out.”

“The organization you worked for? Did they know what happened to Mum? Dad, please. Tell me what happened!” Max tried to shake the memory loose from his father’s mind.

“I tried to save her.… I don’t remember.… I … I ran …”

“You ran away?” Max couldn’t bear it. The lies were twisting themselves into truth.

“I ran. Yes. I ran. Through the jungle. I ran,” his father said quickly, as if seeing the event in his mind’s eye for the first time. Surprise and fear embellished his words. His hands
trembled and then covered his face. A low moan came from his throat. It settled like an animal whimpering in pain, and then Tom Gordon crumpled in on himself. A dark star imploding.

“Dad,” Max whispered, going down on his knees in front of his father, barely able to stop the tears that threatened to blur his eyes, frightened at the change that had come over his father. He held his dad’s hands in his own, like a child begging not to be torn away from a parent.

“Please, Dad, don’t cry. It’s all right. It’ll be all right.”

Tom Gordon wiped a hand across his face. Tears dried, eyes glaring, he stared at the boy in front of him. “Who the hell are you? Why are you asking about my wife?”

All recognition had gone.

Max felt as if he’d fallen from a boat into the ocean—the boat sailing away, leaving him helpless in the vast expanse of loneliness. A shudder racked his muscles. He stood up quickly. He and his father were suddenly like two men facing each other in a dark alley, neither willing to give way. “You ask too many questions! I don’t know you!” Tom Gordon was on his feet.

“Dad! Come on! Please! Cut it out. You’re scaring me now!” Max shouted in his father’s face. Tom Gordon snatched out a hand and grabbed a handful of Max’s jacket. This was the side of his father Max had only occasionally glimpsed—a determined fighter who could respond immediately to any threat.

Before Max could do or say anything, Marty Kiernan swept into the room, stood behind Max’s dad and wrapped him in a gentle one-armed bear hug. Tom Gordon resisted for
a moment, but Marty was whispering, gently calming his patient. “All right? Yeah? All right now, Tom?” Max heard him finally say louder.

Tom Gordon nodded. Marty released him and eased him gently onto the sofa, where he lay down, as if exhausted from a punishing ordeal.

Max’s dad gazed at the ceiling, locked in his own torment.

“What happened, Max?” Marty said. “What did you say to him?”

“I just wanted to know about my mum, whether he’d tried to save her or not.”

“Course he did. He’s your dad. He’d move heaven and earth to help his family.”

Max shook his head vigorously, but the images wouldn’t free themselves. They clung like leeches to his mind, sucking all the love out of him. “He ran away and saved his own skin!” Max yelled.

“Keep your voice down. Remember where you are. Now, you listen to me, son. Your dad has never run away from anything in his life. He’s one of the bravest blokes I’ve ever known, and I’ve known a few. Don’t think of your dad like that. You’ve got it wrong.”

Marty had placed his hand gently on Max’s shoulder, but the boy pulled away. He grabbed his backpack and pushed open the French doors.

“Marty, he told me! He ran! Farentino told the truth. My dad ran away and left my mum to die.”

“Never! Your dad’s confused. He doesn’t remember things—you know that. Wait!”

Max ignored the big man’s plea and sprinted straight
across the open lawns toward the trees, no longer caring whether he was spotted.

Marty glanced quickly at his patient. Tom Gordon had turned on his side and closed his eyes. His breathing was slow and deep. The big man pounded after Max. He couldn’t let the boy go without trying to talk to him about his father.

Max reached the edge of the trees; the wall was another sixty or seventy meters away. He ducked below the branches. Evergreens sucked in the light; pine needles cushioned his footfalls and saved his life. The man who stepped out of the shadows rammed his shoulder into Max like a fierce and dangerous rugby tackle. Max’s head whipped back as he was slammed onto the ground. If the ground hadn’t been so soft, his neck would have snapped.

Max had a blurred vision of the man who straddled him. It was like a slow-motion movie. The man said nothing, grabbed Max’s hair and raised a fist. One thing Max knew without any doubt was that, unlike in the movies, when someone hits you in the face, a real punch can shatter bones and kill. This was real.

He squirmed and bucked, twisting his body. Split-second convulsions powered from somewhere deep inside his brain. Max reared up, baring his teeth like an animal, spitting in the man’s face.

The man was too heavy to push off, but it made him falter. Then, in the moment that he regained his balance, a tree trunk moved, blotted out the faltering light and fell across him. Max’s assailant was crushed and made only the briefest sound as the air wheezed from his lungs. The tree trunk stood up. It had only one arm, but it yanked Max to his feet.

The ex-commando dragged Max and held him effortlessly against an old oak. “Quiet,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the uneven shadows. Satisfied there was no one else out there, he let Max go.

“Thanks, Marty. I dunno who that bloke is, but he’s the third nutter who’s had a go at me.”

Marty was still cautious, but the danger seemed to have passed. No doubt security cameras would have picked up something. He could probably convince the nursing home staff that the man who lay prone was the intruder—Max would be long gone by then.

“What are you into? Tell me.”

Max knew he could trust his dad’s caregiver, and there was no time for long-winded explanations.

“The truth about my mum. Someone sent me a message. I’m gonna find out what it’s all about. Some phony MI-Five guys came to the school. A friend of mine was killed. Everyone thinks it was suicide. I don’t think it was.”

“Bloody hell, Max. You don’t half get yourself into trouble.”

“
It
finds
me
. Marty, I have a lead. I’ve got to try and sort this out. Please. If I go to the police, they’ll laugh at the evidence I have. Meanwhile, someone out there is trying to stop me.”

“All right. Look, you’re wrong about your dad. There has to be an explanation.”

Max said nothing, the anger still sitting like acid in his gut.

Marty nodded. “OK. Get out of here. My guess is the cops’ll get nothing out of this bloke. You call me when you
need help. You get the info about your mum, and I’ll bet you’ll find out what really happened to your dad. Go on.”

Marty gave Max a push into the darkness. He ran for the wall, hit it at a run, reached up, grabbed the top and belly-rolled down the other side. Then he was back on the street. A bus turned the corner. He ran to the stop, flagged it down and jumped aboard.

It didn’t matter where it was going; it got him away quickly and anonymously from the area—away from any other prying eyes. Once he reached the city, it would be time to contact Sayid to see if he’d done what Max had asked.

Riga’s second man, whose job it had been to cover a different section of the nursing home’s wall, sprinted to the corner just as Max’s bus turned away. He swore aloud in frustration. However, had anyone been passing, they would not have understood the Serbian.

This was not good. This was going to upset Riga. He pressed a button on his mobile phone.

“Max Gordon has escaped, and Yevko has not come back. There are two police cars driving onto the grounds. What shall I do?”

“Pray I am in a good mood when you return,” Riga said.

Max found a hole-in-the-wall café. Barely large enough for a couple of tables, it offered milk shakes and sandwiches the size of a brick.

He checked his phone—a single text message: two letters.

MW

That was Sayid’s signal. Max had told him not to phone but to leave a message on the networking site
DTYP
—Don’t Tell Your Parents—and drop the information that Max needed into that. If anyone was going to start digging through Max’s computer, which he was sure the authorities would already be examining, then they wouldn’t find much. Except, of course, the information he had downloaded on Lionel Blacker, PhD, senior lecturer in South American studies at the University of Oxford: the man who had visited Dartmoor High and given the lecture on khipus.

It was only a matter of time before a trail to the Oxford lecturer would be picked up. How long did Max have? The man he wanted to speak to was a block away. It was dark now, and he needed somewhere to sleep, but he couldn’t afford anywhere in the city. If everything went according to plan over the next few hours, he would get to the airport and sleep on a bench.

“Is there an Internet café anywhere around here?” he asked the woman from behind the counter who was fastidiously cleaning his table.

“Two streets left, scruffy place, on the corner.”

Skunk Alley was the name of the Internet café. There were ten computers sitting on grubby Formica tops, and it cost a couple of pounds to access his webmail. The girl at the till had a glaze across her eyes that told Max she might have been inhaling more than the city’s car fumes.

MW
. Magician’s Web. That was what held the information. He clicked on the exploding star logo, settled the headphones on his ears and saw Sayid’s face appear.

His friend was agitated. The connection wasn’t great—Sayid’s features flickered and the audio faltered—but it gave Max everything he needed to know.

“Tickets are booked just like you asked. There are two file attachments I’ve put with this vid. An MI-Five agent came and questioned us. She was horrible. Her name’s Charlie Morgan. She’s young, short black hair, purple and red tufts, stud in her nose, Goth jewelry. Looks like she could go undercover in a zombie film. Scary. She threatened me and Mum.”

Max said a silent apology to his friend. Sayid and his
mother had suffered enough at the hands of extremists. He hated the thought that a British agent would stoop to that kind of questioning, but that was the real world, not some kind of fantasy computer game. That was what grown-ups did—came on so heavy you couldn’t fight them.

“So I gave them your laptop. Everything else just as you planned. The man you wanted to see is expecting you tonight. I phoned him. He’s cool. Seems a nice bloke. I did those letters you wanted—they were on your laptop when they took it.” Sayid gazed at the webcam. Max could almost feel his concern as his friend pushed his face closer, as if whispering. “Max, Mr. Jackson is really upset. He thinks he’s let you down by not keeping you here. I haven’t said anything—I can’t, can I? Because if I do, Morgan will blackmail me, yeah? I told him I knew nothing about you cracking the safe. I’ll play dumb. Don’t worry.” Sayid fell silent for a moment. “Max, I don’t know if any of this is gonna work. They could be waiting for you.” He nodded, gave a brave smile and a thumbs-up. Then he reached out and switched off the webcam.

Now all Max had to do was get to the man who was expecting him and who, he hoped, could decipher the khipu.

Max felt a surge of hope and excitement. He was sure he would learn more about Danny Maguire and how the dead boy could have known about his mum.

Charlie Morgan broke every speed limit to get to Oxford. A few well-placed phone calls had cleared her path down the motorways. Frustrated traffic cops watched her blitz by but
grudgingly acknowledged they didn’t have a car fast enough to catch her. Traffic cameras would pick up her plate, and the courts could decide whether anyone was above the law or not. It had to be something important, though, for such a high-level clearance.