The Thirteenth Skull
“All right, Alfred,” Meredith said.
“First I want to know if Sam’s okay.”
“Sam?”
“The John Doe shot in the penthouse suite. He’s my guardian. Is he okay?”
“He’s in intensive care at St. Mary’s.”
“Will he live?”
She slowly shook her head. She didn’t know.
I stared at her for a few seconds. Then I said, “Do you know how my father died?”
“The newspaper said it was a plane crash.”
“It was a beheading.”
It spewed out of me then, an eruption of words that I couldn’t hold back even if I wanted to. I told her everything. Of Excalibur and the secret order of knights that protected it. Of Mogart, who was my father’s heir until my father found out he had a son—me. Of Bennacio, my father’s best friend and the last knight on earth, who died trying to win the Sword back from Mogart. Of the chase that ended in Merlin’s Cave beneath the ruins of Camelot. Of my death and rebirth, and the death of Mogart.
“How did Mogart die?” she asked.
“He was beheaded,” I answered.
“Him too?”
“By me.”
“You beheaded him?”
“With Excalibur.”
“King Arthur’s sword.”
“Actually, Michael’s sword.”
“Michael the secret agent of this OIPEP?”
“Michael the Archangel of heaven.”
“Heaven.”
“You know.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “Heaven.”
“Where is the Sword now?”
I pointed at the ceiling again.
“Right,” she said slowly, making it two words: “Rye-ite.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t you believe in heaven?”
“I just don’t understand why this OIPEP might want to kill you if you don’t have the Sword.”
I almost said, “Because I have the Seal,” but I wasn’t sure I should tell her about the Great Seal of Solomon. She might frisk me and find it in my pocket. I bit my lip and looked away from her face.
“You know how this must sound,” she said, not unkindly.
“I know,” I admitted. “But it’s the truth.”
“The truth,” she repeated.
I looked back into her eyes and said, “You say you want the truth, but you really don’t because the truth is something that doesn’t belong to your world. You know, the world of this table and these chairs and that clock on the wall. It doesn’t fit, but that’s where I am, in the place that doesn’t fit and I don’t think it’s ever going to—fit I mean. If I could jump over this table back into your world right now, I’d do it. I’d do it in a heartbeat. But my world is holy swords and supersecret spy operations and angels who call me their ‘beloved.’ That’s why somebody tried to kill me today. That’s why those police officers are dead. I’m in big trouble and the guy who’s supposed to protect me is in even bigger trouble and we need somebody to help us. Can you help us, Detective Black? Please, because we really need somebody to help us.”
She didn’t say anything at first. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about her, not in her looks really, that reminded me of my mother.
“I’m going to do everything I can,” she said.
13:15:18:09
An hour later, I was alone in a cramped holding cell when Mr. Needlemier finally showed up.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
He dropped his briefcase on the cot and mopped his bald head with a monogrammed handkerchief.
“I’m terribly sorry, Alfred. You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”
“I told them everything.”
He stared at me. He had just wiped his face, but it shone with moisture. “Everything everything?” he asked.
“Pretty much everything,” I answered.
“Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“They’re taking you to St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“Why?”
“They suspect you may be psychotic.”
“Crazy, you mean.”
“Well, who could blame them?”
“St. Mary’s. That’s where they took Sam. Have you seen him?”
He nodded.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“It’s not good, Alfred. Not good.”
“I want to see him.”
“They’re not going to let you see him.”
“I’ll need only about five minutes—”
“First they have to do the evaluation—”
“And then he’ll be fine. Like it never happened—”
“And then you’ll have a hearing before the judge.”
He finally got my attention.
“What judge?”
“To make a determination.”
“A determination about what?”
“Your … let’s see, the best way to put this … your psychological … ah … readiness to stand trial.”
“You mean if I’m too crazy to be found guilty.”
He nodded. He seemed relieved that I got it. “Yes! Something along those lines.”
“And what if the judge decides I’m crazy? I spend the rest of my life in an asylum?”
He didn’t answer for a few minutes. “I told you not to say anything to them, Alfred.”
“And if he decides I’m not crazy, there’s a trial and I go to prison for twenty years.”
“Only if the jury finds you guilty.”
I thought about it. “So what’s the strategy?”
“Strategy?”
“You do have a strategy for getting me out of this, right?”
“Well, the very first thing I’m going to do is find you a good attorney.”
I stared at him. “I thought you were my attorney.”
“Technically, I’m the attorney for your father’s estate. And you wouldn’t want me for an attorney, Alfred.”
“Why? Do you suck?”
“Oh, no, I don’t suck. I’m quite good at what I do, but unfortunately, I don’t do criminal law.”
He patted my knee.
“Don’t pat my knee,” I said.
He stopped patting my knee. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Like crap. My nose is broke. I’ve got fifty-nine million stitches in my arm and four thousand bruises all over my body and they think my butt might be cracked.”