The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(61)

I whispered to Op Nine, “Cover the porch on the back side. I’ll take the front.”

He nodded and faded to my left, disappearing into the fog with barely a sound. I crept toward the front of the cabin, which emerged slowly from the mist as I came closer. There was a deserted feel to it, and I had a sinking feeling I had made that same awful mistake I always made: going with my gut.

I mounted the steps and pressed my ear against the front door. Silence. I held the 3XD loosely in my right hand. I took one step back, a deep breath, then raised my right leg and with two good sharp kicks busted the door right off its hinges.

So much for stealth.

I lunged into the entryway, sweeping the 3XD in an arc from right to left.

“Mike Arnold!” I yelled. “It’s Alfred Kropp! I know you’re here! We’ve got the cabin surrounded. Come out with your hands up and nobody gets hurt!”

He didn’t come out. Instead he came from behind, throwing one arm around my neck and grabbing my right wrist, whipping my hand behind my back and lifting it high toward my neck. His thumb pressed between the two little bones below my palm and I cried out, dropping the 3XD at his feet.

“No, Al,” he whispered. “Somebody is going to get hurt.”

I butted his face as hard as I could with the back of my head. He grunted and I heard something crunch; maybe I broke his nose. He stumbled backward, his grip loosened, and I used the opportunity to rip free. I turned, and a fist landed in my gut—which I inevitably led with—and I doubled over. The next punch landed against the side of my head and I fell to my knees.

“Jeez, what is that smell? Don’t tell me that’s you, Al.” He was standing right in front of me. I dove forward, wrapping my arms around his knees. He fell backward as I pushed hard with my legs, and my momentum carried us both off the stoop and onto the wet rocky ground. He tried to kick free, but I tightened my grip, so he went into a roll, carrying us away from the cabin, down the slope toward the drop off to the ravine. We jounced over the rough ground, picking up speed as the incline grew steeper. As my luck had it, my legs reached the edge first and I kicked frantically, trying to find a foothold in the empty air. I lost my grip at that point, sliding on my stomach, and I clawed at the dead grass and dried leaves and shards of clay, trying to find a handhold before I fell four hundred feet to the bottom of the ravine.

He grabbed my left wrist, but I kept going down, until his smiling face emerged over the edge.

I looked down between my dangling feet and saw a sea of white, churning rivulets of mist weaving between the glistening brown trunks of the pine trees below.

I think I did break his nose: it looked swollen, and blood covered the lower half of his face. Red rings had already formed beneath both eyes. Other than that, he looked no different, just the same ol’ Mike Arnold smiling down at me with blood-covered teeth, smacking gum.

“Al Kropp, you know the story about the bad penny? What happened to your face, man?”

“Pull me up,” I gasped.

“Why would I do that, Al?”

It was a good question.

“I’m not going to hurt you . . .” I said.

He laughed and I saw the tan piece of well-gnawed gum roll over his tongue.

“Naw, why would you want to do that?”

“I just need the Vessel,” I said. “Give me the Vessel and I promise—”

“You promise? Oh. You promise. Make a pinkie swear and then I’ll pull you up.”

I reached over to my left side and pulled the black sword from my belt.

“Oh, what’s this?” he sneered. “Huh? Whatcha gonna do with that, Al? Cut off my hand?” He laughed. “Drop it and maybe I’ll pull you up.”

He was right. What was I thinking? His hand was my lifeline—it was suicide to even think about it.

Mike’s smile faded when a loud voice boomed out behind him.

“Michael Arnold! Stand up slowly with your hands in the air or I will blow a hole in you the size of Nebraska!”

Op Nine. Mike recovered from the shock quickly. He smiled at me. “Well, you heard the man, Al. I got no choice.”

He started to let go. I screamed Op Nine’s name and at that moment something thin and black rose over Mike’s head . . . then came whistling down. His whole body jerked, his fingers went limp, and as I slipped free another hand shot over the edge and caught me. A shining bald forehead appeared first, then a smiling baby-face.

“Hello, Alfred,” Mr. Needlemier said.

PART FOUR

The Fall of Alfred Kropp

49

We laid Mike on the sofa in the cabin’s main room.

“I heard the commotion and followed the noise,” Mr. Needlemier explained. His face was flushed by the all the excitement or exertion—or maybe both. He had used the tire iron from the Lexus to take Mike out. “I suppose the fog helped cover my approach and of course he was distracted by Samuel here—but I didn’t kill him, did I?”

“No,” Op Nine said. “He lives.”

“Not for much longer,” I growled, and I shouted into Mike’s face, “Where is it, Mike? Where’s the Vessel?”

“Alfred,” Op Nine said softly. “He can’t hear you.”

We searched the cabin for two hours, from the rafters to the floorboards. We checked the crawlspace and under the porch. We walked the grounds, looking for any signs of digging. I had gone through the bedroom twice before realizing I forgot to look under the bed.