The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(67)

The three of them walked toward me, picking their way between the white stones of Arthur’s castle.

I raised my hand. They stopped.

“Alfred,” Nueve said. “You are expecting us?”

“Nueve,” I said, and the word caused a fiery stab of pain deep within my chest. “You know you should avoid asking questions you already know the answers to. People will think you’re stupid.”

I couldn’t stay up any longer. I went down to my knees and Sam rushed forward. He caught me before I landed face-first on the rocky ground. He pulled my head into his lap. His hand touched my side. He felt the wetness there, and his long fingers explored my wound.

“Start the chopper!” he called to Nueve. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital immediately.”

“No,” I said.

He looked down into my face, puzzled. “We’re taking you to headquarters, Alfred. Director Smith has arranged for you to plead your case personally before the board.”

“No, Sam,” I said. “I go to the board . . . beg them not to use me to create the perfect army . . . and maybe they say yes, but it can’t change the fact that anytime they change their mind or some power-hungry jerk”—I looked at Nueve— “decides to change it for them, I can be snatched and lobotomized and drained to feed baby SOFIA. Or the day when they decide it’s just too dangerous having me in the world and they hit the button . . .”

I choked up. I had had a lot of time by the ruins of Camelot, and sometimes that’s a good thing and sometimes it isn’t. I wasn’t sure about this time, but I was pretty sure I knew the-thing-that-must-be-done.

“And if OIPEP doesn’t decide to finish SOFIA, somebody else will.”

“You don’t know that, Alfred,” Sam said.

“Sam, you gotta listen to me. Why do we have atomic bombs? Huh? Because it’s possible. Because we can. Somewhere, sometime, sooner or later, someone will use me to make SOFIA. Because it’s possible. Because they can.”

He started to cry. I’d never seen him cry before. Most people look uglier when they cry. Samuel was ugly to begin with, so now he looked really ugly.

“Alfred, remember the Devil’s Door? Remember what you said to me when I told you there was no hope? You have to go on, Alfred. Just a little bit farther. Just a little bit . . .”

The helicopter came to life, but the sound of it was muffled, the roar of the engine coming as if from behind a screen or curtain. Sam’s face looked fuzzy around the edges as I began to slip through the membrane into that space—the white, centerless space that wasn’t home but felt like home, warm and comforting and totally me-less.

“Here’s the thing,” I told him. He had to bow his head close to my lips to hear me. “Here’s the deal, Sam. With Mogart and the demons, I thought I was saving the world, but the main thing wasn’t the world, it was me. This time . . .” I coughed. Blood filled my mouth and I forced myself to swallow it. “I thought it was all about saving me, but it was never me. It was the world. I’m going to save the world, Samuel. And there’s nobody else who can save it but me.”

I couldn’t see Sam at all anymore. But I saw the castle, not a collection of fallen stones, spotted green with lichen and worn down to pitiful shadows of what they used to be. I saw them as they were supposed to be: brilliant white, walls and parapets that rose to heaven, and standing on the ramparts was a knight in shining armor, his sword raised toward me in salute.

On the other side of the white space, I heard Samuel’s voice. “Well, don’t just stand there! Help me get him to the chopper! Help me . . . !”

The knight upon the ramparts dipped his head.

00:00:00:13

I am scrambling up a mountain of fallen rock and razor-sharp crystal in the middle of the white, centerless space.

I confess to Almighty God . . .

Bloodied from my climb, I reach the summit. Here long grasses grow and caress my fingertips as I walk toward a yew tree, its branches bare.

. . . to blessed Michael the Archangel . . .

A man stands under the outstretched arms of the tree. He looks a little like Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith Show.

“Al,” my uncle Farrell says. “It’s about time you got here.”

. . . to all the saints, and to you, Father . . .

He gives me a big hug; he’s only pretending to be mad. Over his shoulder, I see a tall, white-haired man standing in the long grass, and the grass is blushing bright spring green.

Before the last knight, I bow my head and sink to one knee.

I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed . . .

“Oh, Alfred,” Lord Bennacio says tenderly. “It is I who should kneel to you.”

. . . through my fault—striking my chest with a fist after each fault—through my fault . . . through my most grievous fault . . .

He helps me to my feet, and now I see behind him a golden door and, beside that door, a large man with a flowing mane of hair.

Therefore I beseech you . . .

Smiling, my father raises his arm and a woman steps through the door. She takes his offered hand and together they stand, not moving, not coming to me, but waiting.

My mother takes me into her arms, and she is no ghost or dream. I can feel her. I can smell her hair.

I beseech you!

They gather around me. Bennacio laughs, pats my shoulder, and says, “Come, Alfred Kropp! You don’t want to be late for the feast!”