The Thirteenth Skull (19 page)

“It's more akin to the Hotel California, Alfred,” he said.

“What?”

“An obscure reference to a song well before your time. You intend to press the blue button. Proceed. Press it.”

My thumb hovered over the button.

“He who hesitates,” Nueve said softly.

I pressed the blue button. The red one next to it began to low.

“You truly are extraordinary, Alfred,” he said. “In another life, you would have made a superb Superseding Protocol Agent. You are about to say you have no choice because we've given you no choice.”

I nodded. “You've given me no choice.”

“That the choice between spending the rest of your life here as our lobotomized guest and dying here, right now, is no choice at all. You would rather die.”

“That's right. I'd rather end it now than spend the rest of my life as a vegetable.”

“And you are gambling that your death would completely disrupt our plans for you.”

“I knew you'd get it.”

His dark eyes danced. “I get everything. What would you say, Alfred, if I told you that we have more than enough samples to render your continued existence irrelevant?”

“I would say you're bluffing,” I answered.

His right eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. “Because?”

“Because if that were true you wouldn't have ordered them to hold their fire. You still need me. I'm not sure why exactly, but you need me, and if I push this button you won't have me. Bottom line: if you want me, Nueve, you're going to have to let me go.”

“That much is true, yes,” he said with a nod. “But not the issue. The issue is . . . will you do it?
Can
you do it? I must believe the answer to that question is yes for this to work. You understand that.”

I turned to Ashley. “Get on the chopper.”

She looked at me. She looked at Nueve. She didn't move. I said it again: “Get on the chopper.”

She took a step toward it and Nueve's cane whipped in the air, the six-inch dagger protruding from its base. I raised the box over my head and yelled, “Do it and I hit the button, I swear to God I will, you Spanish bastard!” and the blade froze a centimeter from her throat.

Our eyes met . . . and Nueve blinked first. He slowly lowered the cane. His eyes met Ashley's and he gave the slightest of nods.

“Go,” I said to Ashley.

Nobody said anything as she trotted to the chopper and disappeared into the hold.

I turned back to Nueve.

“Are you familiar, Alfred,” he said, “with the law of diminishing returns?”

I backed away, keeping my eye on Nueve. The guys with the guns didn't matter. Only Nueve mattered. With a flick of his wrist, he could signal for them to open fire. But he wasn't going to do that. Halfway to the chopper, I realized he really
was
going to do it: he was going to let us go.

“There is no escape, you know,” he called to me. “No place on earth where we cannot find you. You are merely delaying the inevitable, Alfred.”

“You do what you have to do and I'll do what I have to do,” I said.

I climbed into the hold and fell into the seat beside Ashley. I tossed the box into her lap and told her to hold it because knowing my luck I'd hit the red button by accident.

The pilot was staring at us. I twirled my index finger and the engine roared to life. A minute later we were off the ground and climbing above the treetops. I looked out the window and saw a solitary figure below, and he wasn't so far beneath me that I couldn't see the ironic smile playing on his lips.

HELENA REGIONAL AIRPORT
HELENA, MONTANA

01:12:49:55

I dialed the eight hundred number from a pay phone outside Captain Jack's Bistro & Bar, the airport's sole restaurant, while Ashley waited at a table inside. I was interrupted a couple of times by travelers asking directions. In my black jumper, I must have looked like a maintenance worker.

A lady with a foreign accent answered. “Office Directory Services, how may I direct your call?”

“Abigail Smith,” I said.

There was a pause. “Dr. Smith is not available at the moment.”

“I need to get a message to her. A very important message.”

“I could direct you to her voice mail.”

“I've already left her a voice mail.”

There was another, longer pause.

“Dr. Smith is currently indisposed,” the operator said.

“That's the problem,” I said. “So am I.”

I hung up and dialed Mr. Needlemier's number. I didn't have any money, so I made the call collect. On my first try, he refused to accept the charges. I called right back and the operator came on the line and relayed the message that my party didn't appreciate prank calls and if I persisted he would report me to the FCC. The third time was the charm. I told the operator my name was Samuel St. John and he accepted the call.

“Mr. Needlemier, it's me, Alfred Kropp. Don't hang up.”

“Alfred Kropp is dead. I should know; I buried him myself. Well, not personally, but I was there.”

“I can prove it's me.” I bit my lower lip, trying to think of a way to prove it.

“The picture,” I said finally. “You remember the picture you gave me at the hospital? You found it in the ashes after Jourdain Garmot burned my father's house down. It was me and my mom . . .”

He didn't say anything. The silence dragged out.

“Oh my dear Lord!” he whispered. “Alfred!” His voice climbed an octave, cracking on the last syllable. “Alfred, this is extraordinary!”

“OIPEP faked my death,” I said. “I'm sorry. I thought you knew.”

“They brought me your ashes in a can! A tin can!”

“Really? Look, Mr. Needlemier, I need to find—”

“I was in quite a quandary. Your mother is buried in Ohio and your father here in Knoxville, and we never discussed where you might prefer to be laid to rest.”

“Right,” I said. “Mr. Needlemier, here's the thing: I've extracted myself from the extraction and—”

“In the end I buried you in Ohio, next to your mother.

You met Bernard only once as I recall and knew him only after his death—or
of
him, I should say—so burying you here would be a reunion of strangers or near strangers.”

“That's good,” I said. “You did the right thing. Here's why I called—”

“A lovely service, Alfred. Cold, but clear skies and not a bit of breeze . . .”

“Who came?” I asked. He had sucked me in.

“It was—an intimate gathering. Myself, the priest, of course, and a gentleman by the name of Vosch, who told me he had worked closely with you on a special project.”

“That would be the attempted beheading,” I said. Only three people at my funeral? One, the priest, had to be there, and the other guy was there for his job, which was to kill me. “Vosch works for Jourdain Garmot. Probably there to make sure I was really dead. What about Samuel? He was there, right?”

Mr. Needlemier didn't give me a direct answer. “The last time I saw Samuel was after his release from the hospital. He asked all sorts of questions about the arson and the suit involving the estate. Your death has complicated things a bit and nothing's been decided, but you see you have no heirs, no living relatives. Jourdain has a good chance now of seizing control of your father's business as well as the estate . . .”

“That doesn't matter,” I said. “I don't care about that anymore. I need to find Samuel.”

“Well, he did give me his cell phone number should I need it.”

He gave me the number.

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew. He was going after Jourdain. He was going to kill him, if he hadn't already, or die trying.

“Not a hint, but between us, Alfred, I have the impression he doesn't like me very much.”

“He gives everyone that impression,” I said. “Does he know I died?”

“He left before I received the news . . . I don't know, Alfred.”

“But Vosch was at my funeral. So Jourdain thinks I'm dead. He'll tell Sam and maybe that will save his life. I'm not sure. Samuel might kill him anyway, if he hasn't already.”

But I hoped I was in time to stop it. I didn't think Jourdain was evil—just messed up by his father's murder and he had thought taking me out would bring him some peace. I knew better.

“Well,” Mr. Needlemier said. “I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but it certainly would solve all your difficulties if Jourdain were, um, shall we say, in your current perceived condition—but in actuality.”

I sighed. Lawyers. “Not all my difficulties, Mr. Needlemier. Not by a long shot. That reminds me. I need cash. There's a Western Union here at the airport. Can you wire me some?”

“Some what?”

“Cash, Mr. Needlemier. Money. We need clothes and plane tickets—and food. We haven't eaten in almost two days.”

“We?”

“Me and Ashley.”

“Ah, the lovely secret agent person. Of course, Alfred. I'll wire you as much as you need. Are you flying back to Knoxville?”

“I don't think so,” I said. “It's the first place he'll look.”

“Jourdain?”

“Nueve.”

“Nueve!”

“Well, both. Jourdain and Nueve. The list keeps growing.”

“Ah, so that's what you meant by difficulties. I thought perhaps you were referring to the Skull.”

“The Skull?”

“The Thirteenth Skull. You asked me about it at the airport, remember? Well, it tweaked my curiosity, so I took it upon myself to find out a little more about it.”

“And?”

“And I did.”

“No, I meant what did you find out?”

“The Thirteenth Skull may be another name for the Skull of Doom.”

“The Skull of Doom?”

“Or then again, perhaps not. The literature is quite contradictory and vague, like all such literature, but utterly fascinating . . .”

“Mr. Needlemier,” I said. “I'm very tired and very hungry and I'm running out of time.”

“Of course. In a nutshell, there are, or were, thirteen skulls, fashioned from solid crystal sometime in the late first century. By whom and for what purpose no one seems to agree, but one legend that I thought you might find interesting—or thought you would if you were alive, because of course at the time I thought you weren't—one legend has it that the Skulls were made by Merlin—”

“Merlin,” I echoed, remembering my dream in cabin thirteen. The old man unzipping his head and ripping out his skull. “Touch.”

“The magician. From Camelot . . .”

“I know who Merlin is, Mr. Needlemier.”

“Of course you do! You would almost have to! Carved from crystal by Merlin himself . . . including the Thirteenth, the last and most terrible of the Divining Skulls, as they were called. Merlin was so horrified by what he had fashioned that he divided the first twelve between Arthur's bravest knights, ordering them to scatter the Skulls to the ends of the earth and to tell no one where they had hidden them. The Thirteenth, called the Skull of Doom, Merlin himself hid away—or more precisely
threw
away.”

“Threw away? Where did he throw it away?”

“Not where, Alfred.
When
. The legend says he hurled the Skull of Doom into a time warp or vortex, casting it far into the future, so far that the wizard was certain no man would still be alive to use it.”

“Why? What could it do?”

“By itself, hardly anything. It could be used much like a crystal ball—like the others, it was cut from the purest crystal—to see into the future. But the Skull's real power came when aligned with the first twelve. You see, if the twelve were arranged in a circle, with the thirteenth in the middle, all time and space could—or most definitely
would,
according to some—be literally ripped apart.”

I thought about that. “The end of the world.”

“No, of
everything
. The entire universe.”

“No wonder Merlin ordered them scattered.”

“Yes. And no wonder that Jourdain might know of them. His father was, after all, a Knight of the Sacred Order.”

“He went to Suedberg,” I said.

“Suedberg?”

“This little town in Pennsylvania where one of the knights lived—or used to live before Mogart's men killed him. But his mother is still there—and she's a soothsayer. She can see the future.”

“Perhaps with the help of a special crystalline object designed for that purpose?”

“Maybe,” I said. It was hard to think it through. I was hungry and tired and still chilled to the bone. “I stayed in that house and never saw any crystal skull, but it wasn't like I searched the place.”

“No doubt Jourdain has, though.”

“But it still doesn't add up. Unless Jourdain thinks I knew where the Thirteenth Skull was—which I don't—and besides he didn't even give me a chance to tell him one way or another. Nueve swooped in right before he was going to chop off my head.”

“He didn't ask you where it was?”

“He just said he was on the ‘last knightly quest,' ” I said. “That must be why Sam's so bent on finding him. If anyone would know about some magical crystal skull, it would be the Operative Nine for OIPEP.”

I made him repeat Samuel's cell number one last time before hanging up. I dialed the number and got a very stern recorded message from the phone company that I needed to deposit three dollars before making my call.

In the restaurant, Ashley was working on a sloppy hamburger about the size of my head, a plateful of fries buried under globs of ketchup, and a big bowl of baked beans.

“I ordered,” she said unnecessarily. “I couldn't wait any longer. Lemme guess: the director is ‘indisposed.' ”

“I've got a feeling something bad has happened.”