The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(62)

I walked a half mile down the road to the gas station where I bought the corn dogs. I asked the clerk if I could use her phone.

“Why?” she asked.

“My car broke down. I need to call my dad.”

“You don’t have a cell phone?”

“It’s dead.” So was my dad, but I didn’t want to overload her with too much information.

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?”