The Thirteenth Skull

“Because if that were true you wouldn’t have ordered them to hold their fire. You still need me. I’m not sure why exactly, but you need me, and if I push this button you won’t have me. Bottom line: if you want me, Nueve, you’re going to have to let me go.”

“That much is true, yes,” he said with a nod. “But not the issue. The issue is . . . will you do it? Can you do it? I must believe the answer to that question is yes for this to work. You understand that.”

I turned to Ashley. “Get on the chopper.”

She looked at me. She looked at Nueve. She didn’t move. I said it again: “Get on the chopper.”

She took a step toward it and Nueve’s cane whipped in the air, the six-inch dagger protruding from its base. I raised the box over my head and yelled, “Do it and I hit the button, I swear to God I will, you Spanish bastard!” and the blade froze a centimeter from her throat.

Our eyes met . . . and Nueve blinked first. He slowly lowered the cane. His eyes met Ashley’s and he gave the slightest of nods.

“Go,” I said to Ashley.

Nobody said anything as she trotted to the chopper and disappeared into the hold.

I turned back to Nueve.

“Are you familiar, Alfred,” he said, “with the law of diminishing returns?”

I backed away, keeping my eye on Nueve. The guys with the guns didn’t matter. Only Nueve mattered. With a flick of his wrist, he could signal for them to open fire. But he wasn’t going to do that. Halfway to the chopper, I realized he really was going to do it: he was going to let us go.

“There is no escape, you know,” he called to me. “No place on earth where we cannot find you. You are merely delaying the inevitable, Alfred.”

“You do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do,” I said.

I climbed into the hold and fell into the seat beside Ashley. I tossed the box into her lap and told her to hold it because knowing my luck I’d hit the red button by accident.

The pilot was staring at us. I twirled my index finger and the engine roared to life. A minute later we were off the ground and climbing above the treetops. I looked out the window and saw a solitary figure below, and he wasn’t so far beneath me that I couldn’t see the ironic smile playing on his lips.

HELENA REGIONAL AIRPORT

HELENA, MONTANA

01:12:49:55

I dialed the eight hundred number from a pay phone outside Captain Jack’s Bistro & Bar, the airport’s sole restaurant, while Ashley waited at a table inside. I was interrupted a couple of times by travelers asking directions. In my black jumper, I must have looked like a maintenance worker.

A lady with a foreign accent answered. “Office Directory Services, how may I direct your call?”

“Abigail Smith,” I said.

There was a pause. “Dr. Smith is not available at the moment.”

“I need to get a message to her. A very important message.”

“I could direct you to her voice mail.”

“I’ve already left her a voice mail.”

There was another, longer pause.

“Dr. Smith is currently indisposed,” the operator said.

“That’s the problem,” I said. “So am I.”

I hung up and dialed Mr. Needlemier’s number. I didn’t have any money, so I made the call collect. On my first try, he refused to accept the charges. I called right back and the operator came on the line and relayed the message that my party didn’t appreciate prank calls and if I persisted he would report me to the FCC. The third time was the charm. I told the operator my name was Samuel St. John and he accepted the call.

“Mr. Needlemier, it’s me, Alfred Kropp. Don’t hang up.”

“Alfred Kropp is dead. I should know; I buried him myself. Well, not personally, but I was there.”

“I can prove it’s me.” I bit my lower lip, trying to think of a way to prove it.

“The picture,” I said finally. “You remember the picture you gave me at the hospital? You found it in the ashes after Jourdain Garmot burned my father’s house down. It was me and my mom . . .”

He didn’t say anything. The silence dragged out.

“Oh my dear Lord!” he whispered. “Alfred!” His voice climbed an octave, cracking on the last syllable. “Alfred, this is extraordinary!”

“OIPEP faked my death,” I said. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

“They brought me your ashes in a can! A tin can!”

“Really? Look, Mr. Needlemier, I need to find—”

“I was in quite a quandary. Your mother is buried in Ohio and your father here in Knoxville, and we never discussed where you might prefer to be laid to rest.”

“Right,” I said. “Mr. Needlemier, here’s the thing: I’ve extracted myself from the extraction and—”

“In the end I buried you in Ohio, next to your mother.

You met Bernard only once as I recall and knew him only after his death—or of him, I should say—so burying you here would be a reunion of strangers or near strangers.”

“That’s good,” I said. “You did the right thing. Here’s why I called—”

“A lovely service, Alfred. Cold, but clear skies and not a bit of breeze . . .”

“Who came?” I asked. He had sucked me in.

“It was—an intimate gathering. Myself, the priest, of course, and a gentleman by the name of Vosch, who told me he had worked closely with you on a special project.”

“That would be the attempted beheading,” I said. Only three people at my funeral? One, the priest, had to be there, and the other guy was there for his job, which was to kill me. “Vosch works for Jourdain Garmot. Probably there to make sure I was really dead. What about Samuel? He was there, right?”

Mr. Needlemier didn’t give me a direct answer. “The last time I saw Samuel was after his release from the hospital. He asked all sorts of questions about the arson and the suit involving the estate. Your death has complicated things a bit and nothing’s been decided, but you see you have no heirs, no living relatives. Jourdain has a good chance now of seizing control of your father’s business as well as the estate . . .”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t care about that anymore. I need to find Samuel.”

“Well, he did give me his cell phone number should I need it.”

He gave me the number.