The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(18)

11

“It is a prize beyond any price, Alfred,” Mr. Samson said. “But Mogart can expect billions for it. Tens of billions. And if we do not find him before the Sword passes into the hands of evil men, the world will plunge into an age of unimaginable cruelty and terror. Envision the horrors of Nazi Germany or the Russia of the Stalinists, multiply them tenfold, and then you will begin to understand the magnitude of this loss.”

The rising sun was shining now through the window on his sharp features.

“We must retrieve the Sword before this can happen. He may yet decide to keep it for his own use, but that result would not be much better.”

“You know where he is?” I asked.

“I know where he is going. He has been preparing a long time for this day. Right now he is crossing the Atlantic, making for his keep in Játiva.” He saw my confused expression and gave a little laugh. “In Spain, Alfred.” He smiled at me again. “You have a thousand more questions, but I’ve stayed too long; I must go.”

“Don’t go yet,” I begged. “Don’t leave me alone.”

He patted my hand and his smile faded. “That seems to be my doom—and yours, Alfred.”

He turned and went to the door. I jumped up and followed him.

“There’s gotta be something I can do,” I said. “Take me with you; I could help. I’m the one who lost it; I should help get it back.”

I expected him to say something like “I think you’ve done quite enough already.” Instead, he leaned toward me and whispered, “Pray.”

He started down the hall and I called out after him, “Just one more question, Mr. Samson! Why didn’t he kill me too?”

He paused, then turned back to me, smiling that same sad smile. “Two reasons, I think. First, it is crueler to kill your uncle and let you live. Second, there is such a thing as honor among thieves.”

He disappeared into the stairwell, followed by the two agents. Nothing he could have said would have made me feel worse than calling me a thief. I don’t think he meant to hurt my feelings, though. My feelings were the least of his worries.

12

With Uncle Farrell gone, I was now a ward of the state. A couple named Horace and Betty Tuttle volunteered to take me in, pending the unlikely event of somebody adopting me.

The Tuttles lived in a tiny house on the near north side of Knoxville. Five other foster kids lived crammed into that little house. I never saw Horace Tuttle go to work, and I knew they received all sorts of checks from the state and the federal government for each kid, so I think we were how he made a living.

Horace Tuttle was a short, round little guy, always making remarks about my size, particularly my head. I think I scared him or he resented how big I was, I mean, because he was awfully small. Betty, his wife, was short and round like him, with the same conical-shaped head. They reminded me of turtles, kind of like their name, Tuttle. Maybe some people come to resemble their names, the way some people come to resemble their dogs.

I shared a bedroom with two of the other foster kids. The very first night the older one threatened to kill me in my sleep. I was feeling so low and lousy, I told him that would be fine with me.

I usually had trouble concentrating in school, but try concentrating when your uncle has just been murdered right before your eyes and you know the world is about to end. Try studying when you know World War III is about to start and it’s all your fault.

I still met with Amy Pouchard twice a week. She asked why I had missed the past couple of weeks and I told her.

“My uncle was murdered.”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “Who killed him?”

I thought about my answer. “An agent of darkness.”

“So they caught him?”

“They’re trying.”

“Hey, isn’t your mom dead too?”

“She died of cancer.”

“You must be the unluckiest person on earth,” she said, and scooted away from me a little, probably without realizing she was doing it. “I mean, your mom and now your uncle and what you did to Barry and everything.”

“I’ve been trying to tell myself all those things had nothing to do with me, that I’m okay and everything,” I said. “But it’s getting harder and harder.”

I was Uncle Farrell’s sole heir, so I got all his things, but I only kept his TV and VCR, which I set up in my bedroom. The main thing I didn’t get was the $500,000. I didn’t remember Mogart leaving with the brown leather satchel, but it wasn’t under Uncle Farrell’s bed where he stashed it, and the police never found it, probably because I didn’t tell them about it. That cash would be hard to explain and would probably get me in more trouble than I already was in, but I started wishing I still had that money. If I did, I would have taken it and run. I didn’t know where I’d run, but anywhere seemed better than the Tuttles and the delinquents who lived with them.

Over the next couple of days, I would grab Horace’s newspaper and take it to school and, instead of studying, I read the newspaper from front page to last, looking for anything that might give me a clue as to what was happening with Mr. Samson’s quest. I wondered what good a billion dollars was in a world of unimaginable cruelty and terror, but men like Mogart have imaginations different than mine. For example, if I had been Mogart, it would have never occurred to me to hire somebody like my uncle Farrell to steal the most powerful weapon that ever existed.