She clearly didn’t believe me. Maybe if I bought something she’d let me use the phone. I bought a Big Gulp and asked again if I could use the phone.
“There’s a pay phone outside—or don’t you have any money either?”
“I just bought a Big Gulp,” I pointed out. I went back outside. I hadn’t seen the pay phone: it was on the far side of the property, out of the bright lights of the station. I walked into the shadows and got the number from the operator. How many hours was England ahead of us? Or was it behind us? On the twelfth ring, a lady came on the line and thanked me for calling Tintagel International World Headquarters.
“Jourdain Garmot,” I said.
The line popped with static.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Mr. Garmot is not in at the present. May I take a message or direct you to his voice mail?”
“Vosch, then.”
“I’m sorry—who did you say?”
“Vosch,” I said louder. “I don’t know his first name.”
“One moment please.” Music began to play in my ear. I had snuck out of the room without a jacket—mostly because I didn’t have a jacket. I shivered. The line popped and I heard her say, “Sir, I’ve checked the company directory and there’s no listing for a—”
“Check again. This is Alfred Kropp.”
“Kropp? Is that with a C or a K?”
“With a K.”
“One P or PP?”
“PP.”
The music came back on. I stamped my feet and shifted my weight from side to side and blew on a cupped hand, then switched the receiver to blow on the other.
“Mr. Krapp?”
“Kropp.”
“One moment please for Mr. Vosch.”
A series of clicks and pops as she routed the call. I looked up. The sky was cloudless and brilliant with stars. I’d never seen so many stars.
“Kropp,” Vosch said.
“Vosch. I’m ready.”
“Where are you?”
I told him.
“Stay there. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“I’m going to wait inside the store,” I said. “It’s cold. And Vosch? Is it too late for Mr. Needlemier?”
“No, Alfred. You’re just in time.”
I waited inside the store, sipping my Big Gulp. The clerk was glaring at me, so I bought a Snickers. I thought about buying another corn dog, but two was the lucky number. I kept glancing at my watch. Every second that passed was a second where Ashley might change her mind or Nueve might arrive and change it for her. I wondered if Sam would kill Nueve or if Nueve would win that battle. They were both Op Nines at the top of their game; it would be a close match. I watched the deserted lot through the plate-glass windows.
“Get hold of your dad?” the clerk asked.
I nodded. “It won’t be long now.”
A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up next to the building. The front passenger door swung open and Vosch stepped out, snapping the collar of his fashionable tan duster. He did a slow turn, surveying the lot, right hand inside the pocket of the duster.
I told the clerk bye and she said, “Hey, let’s do it again real soon,” and then I was standing outside in the cold before Vosch.
“I’m alone,” I said.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, Alfred.”
“I’m the son of a knight. Honesty’s in our blood.”
He laughed like I had gotten off a good joke, opened the door for me, and I slid into the second seat. I was sitting beside a small, weaselly looking guy with a sharp nose and narrow shoulders, who smelled like peanut butter. He said, “Don’t move,” and then he frisked me. Vosch rode shotgun next to a big, flat-faced, slitty-eyed goon who could have been a clone of the big, flat-faced, slitty-eyed goon I took out on the highway. Like pretty girls, I guess, big, flat-faced, slitty-eyed goons were a dime a dozen.
“He’s clean,” Weasel said.
We got on I-15 heading north toward the airport.
“I know where you’re taking me,” I said. “I know where the circle ends.”
“Most apropos, yes?” Vosch asked.
“Oui,” I said.
00:11:03:21
When you look down at it from thirty-five thousand feet, the Atlantic is as featureless as a chalkboard and about as interesting to watch. But I watched it, hoping the gray monotony would make me drowsy. I needed sleep.
Vosch reclined in the leather seat across from me, wearing a white turtleneck and gray slacks. Flat-Face II sat directly behind me and Weasel beside him, both fast asleep, their snores bugging the heck out of me. Nothing is more annoying than a person sleeping when you can’t.
I watched the ocean. Vosch watched me.
“ ‘Alone, alone, all, all alone,’ ” he said softly. “ ‘Alone on a wide wide sea!/And never a saint took pity on/My Soul in agony . . .’ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ by Coleridge. Do you know it?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to care.
“ ‘Poetry is how the soul breathes . . .’ I forget who said that. I suspect your exposure to it is limited to the lyrics of P. Diddy and Jay-Z. You can listen to them if you like. We have satellite radio. And television. There’s also a full library of DVDs onboard. We just added the complete six-volume Three Stooges collection. In high def! You might find the parallels comforting.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“And books,” he said. “Classics and popular literature. No comics, I’m afraid. You strike me as an Archie fan. That Jughead! And will Arch ever choose between Veronica and Betty?”
“You’re really a well-rounded guy,” I said. “Poetry, books, music, comics, kidnapping, torture, assassination.”
“Oh, I dabble. What is the American expression? Jack of all trades, master of none.”
“There’s one thing that’s been bugging me,” I said.
“About the Thirteenth Skull.”
He smiled, an eyebrow climbing toward his hairline.
“Yes?”
“Why does Jourdain need to kill me to get it?”
“Why does he—?” Vosch cracked up. He laughed until tears shone in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“Ah, Alfred,” Vosch said as he dabbed his cheek with a white handkerchief. “I suppose for the same reason the chicken must cross the road.”