Brooklyn Knight (8 page)

“Fly away, little bird,” said Two, “or we will simply put you down—understood?”

“I take your meaning,” answered Knight, his tone meant to imply he might actually be considering their offer, the accent he suddenly began using letting them know he was not, “but, this being Brooklyn, what can I say but, well, you know, youze gotta do what’chu gotta do; I gotta do what I gotta do—youze know what I’m sayin’?”

Without hesitation, Four and One swung around their sidearms. As they did, Five uttered a pair of nonsense words that the professor took for a private signal. As Two and Three began lowering their burden to the floor, Five blazed once more into full illumination. As he did so, the two scouts, this time warned and squinting their eyes tightly, were able to target Knight clearly. Without hesitation the pair let loose a pair of full-auto barrages directly on-target. Eighteen bullets sped toward the professor who appeared to be in no hurry to move out of their way. Not willing to assume victory, Three and Two also pulled their sidearms, preparing to add more lead to the attack if necessary just as the first bullets fired found flesh.

To their surprise, however, none of the flesh torn into belonged to Knight. As Five diminished his brilliance, the wraith was shocked to see all of his accomplices either falling to the floor or grasping various sections of their bodies. All four were bleeding. All four were cursing—screaming in pain. A satisfied look on his face, the professor pulled forth the cigar-sized baton from inside his suit coat. Giving it a quick snap, he released the inner sections, which slid outward from both ends, increasing the weapon’s size from roughly five inches to twenty-five.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, raising the weapon above his head, “is there anyone who doesn’t want to have a seat?”

Knight found it fairly easy to beat the quartet into submission. Five wasted breath bellowing various threats, but the professor ignored them, not bothering to comment until the sight of flashing police lights closing in on the museum’s entrance came into view. Having kicked away all of the intruders’ weapons, feeling fairly confident they would not go to the trouble to set off any of their explosives with themselves in the blast area, Knight turned to the wraith, asking;

“So, my noisy friend, are you going to continue to hang there
and jabber until the authorities arrive, which, by the by, I would prefer—having your ghostly presence here will make explanations so much simpler—or are you finally going to do everyone a favor by simply shutting up and disappearing?”

Seeing both uniformed and plainclothes officers moving up the stairs toward the front of the building, Five suddenly went serenely calm. Locking eyes with the professor, he answered;

“You are one smug, supercilious bastard, whoever you are—but you have no idea with what you are dealing. Nor now, I suppose, will you ever.”

And with those words, the astral presence extended his right arm, pointing it toward his accomplices. That accomplished, he mouthed an apology in their direction, after which he murmured a few words in ancient Latin, then winked out of existence as the spell he had cast detonated the grenades the others had been carrying, blowing out the front doors and tearing the four intruders into the tiniest of pieces.

“I’m thinking this is not a call filled with news I very much wish to hear, is it?” The speaker sat at a table, nervously drumming his fingers. As suspicion and dread swirled within his mind, the voice on the other end of the line told him;

“I regret to admit you are correct, sir.”

He knew it. The electronically masked words stung him, filling him with an exasperating frustration. Deep within himself he had somehow known since the entire operation had begun that things would go wrong.

“And what is it that makes me correct when I so very much wish not to be so?”

“Our team failed to acquire the object you requested. Their failure was actually something quite unexpected. What should have been a simple retrieval, a thing of minimal effort, somehow has gone terribly wrong.”

“How wrong?”

“Four of our people are dead. Another was forced to
cause himself serious injury simply to escape the authorities as well as to cover our tracks. These matters are, of course, sir, not your concern. Our organization in no way is attempting to hold you responsible. Nor are we looking to alter the terms of our agreement. We are, at this time, merely informing you that it appears we simply were not prepared for all contingencies.”

“This is what you are telling me. Fine. I am told. Now, what is it you are actually suggesting?”

The electronic voice asked for a moment to confer with its colleagues. After that the line went quiet as the voice on the phone went into muffled conference with others equally disguised. Their discussion consumed only a handful of seconds, ones taken up with what seemed to the party on the other end, not so much any kind of debate rather than a discussion concerning whether or not everyone he was listening to was in agreement. Finding they were, the distorted voice returned to the line once more, ready to make an offer.

“You must understand, sir, we pride ourselves on delivering on any contract. We have a reputation, after all, as the best in this business.”

“And so, your offer … ?”

“You have a choice. We will either refund your deposit, even that interest earned on it while in our possession …”

“Very generous. Or—”

“Or, we will make a second attempt. You must understand, however. Unlike our previous foray, the piece you have shown an interest in is no longer sitting waiting in a museum basement. It has been moved to a police station. Also, our sources say that intense examination of it is to begin tomorrow. I hope this will not interfere with your own plans.”

Tell them to get it,
the voice in the back of his mind was snarling—raging.
Tell them nothing else matters.

“The fools can study it all they like; they are gibbons clambering over an algebra textbook. Are you saying you can still get the piece for me by the date mentioned?”

“It will call upon a far greater output of resources,” answered the disembodied voice. “But again, that is our concern. We have our reputation to consider. If you will allow it, we will put our second attempt into immediate action.”

Tell them!

“Do it,” answered the man, still drumming his fingers. “The money is of no concern. I simply must have the piece.”

“So it is said,” responded the voice, its dead electronic hum coming across as almost joyous, “so it is done. You shall have the object of your desire, even if we have to wipe its prison from the face of the Earth.”

“Whatever it takes,” answered the man, his fingers drumming, moving faster than ever. “
Whatever
it takes.”

“I still can’t believe it.”

The words came from Detective Sergeant Jimmy Dollins. Just approaching middle age, the detective was a massive bear of a man, one gone somewhat soft around the middle, but still dangerous looking enough so that only his best friends would dare mention the fact without fearing retribution. His uncombed mane of tangled brown hair and the four days’ growth of his beard did little to make him appear as if he might be looking for any new friends.

Across the table from him, his partner, Denny LaRaja, a smaller, immaculately groomed, soft-spoken man, added;

“Oh, indeed, I mean, really, Knight, it doesn’t add up. Even for you—it just doesn’t make any sense.”

Between the two detectives sat a tired and more than impatient Professor Knight. His clothing was rumpled, the back of his jacket scorched, its stitching splitting up the middle. Off to the side sat Bridget Elkins. The four
were at the local police precinct house, an innocuous-looking stone and brick building, slotted in the center of a row of such structures. Like so many of the city’s police stations, it strove for a certain invisibility, to blend in with its urban surroundings.

It was an idea implemented decades earlier, the foolishly idealistic notion that disguising authority would render it more palatable to those who wished it removed. It was one of the city’s numerous bits of nonsense concerning law enforcement. Knight’s favorite had always been the repainting of all squad cars to white, because their former color frightened people, and you certainly could not have people frightened of the police.

Of course, he had thought as they entered, the endless line of police vehicles up and down the entire block outside the station house, most of them pulled up onto the sidewalk—whether they were painted white or not, whether the precinct building looked like a fort or a library—people’s reactions to authority are completely gauged by their respect for the law and nothing else.

Looking about himself, glancing at Bridget, then Dollins, then LaRaja, the professor wondered briefly what the law had planned for him that night. The detectives had sequestered him and his assistant in one of the building’s four interrogation chambers. The room was a sullen thing, a depressing gray box with nothing in the way of amenities save the obvious two-way mirror made a cliché by so many hundreds of movies and television shows.

The two police officers, both longtime acquaintances of Knight’s, had assured him that no one was observing them. The professor did not care whether someone was listening or not. Considering what had really happened in the lobby, he had no plans on revealing what had actually transpired between himself and the intruders to anyone. From the way the detectives were urging him to “level with us and tell us what really happened,” Knight knew the pair had their doubts about his version of what had transpired.
Still, knowing he had no real choice in the matter, the professor maintained his well-rehearsed stance as a sedentary curator and repeated his story again, once more giving the officers the same greatly reduced version of the actual events.

“Fellows, I repeat, Ms. Elkins and I went back to the museum after dinner so I could handle a matter I had agreed would be taken care of earlier that day. When we arrived, I saw that no one was at the guard desk and grew suspicious. I sent Ms. Elkins to call you, while I went inside to investigate.” When Bridget spoke up, agreeing that such was what had happened, Dollins grunted at her that when they wanted to hear from the redhead they would direct their questions toward her.

The young woman steamed, not taking kindly to being dismissed so brusquely. Having the good sense to realize that she had no cards to play in that situation, however, she accepted the detective’s rebuke and sat back in silence. At the same time, noting that the well-oiled pair knew their parts well, that while his partner had addressed Knight’s assistant, LaRaja’s eyes had never left him, the professor also held his tongue from letting slip any of the somewhat frosty comments he really wanted to say. Continuing on meekly, instead, he told the pair;

“Anyway, as I was saying, when I did so, enter the museum, I mean, I discovered four men exiting from the lower levels carrying a burden. They began arguing in the lobby, and then drew their weapons and gunned each other down. Somehow this must have set off some sort of explosives they were carrying.” As the two detectives continued to stare, Knight merely shrugged and added; “What? What more do you want?”

LaRaja, his usually gentle eyes narrowing, focusing to hard points, leaned forward from his chair. With two fingers of his left hand, he brushed his neat, graying moustache first one way, then the other. After that he leaned in even closer, asking quietly;

“Piers, Piers—really; what is it with you? Why are you always doing things like this to us? Don’t you like us? Aren’t we your friends anymore?”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Denny? I like both you fellows considerably. You’ve always been very good to the museum, not to mention the way you’ve always—”

“Oh, cut it—Knight.” Dollins’ voice roared up out of him like a geyser rushing to the surface. Spewing it at the professor, he shouted, “Do not think you can get away playin’ us! I’m warning you—do not do it. Do not try. We’re talkin’ four goddamned dead bodies. Blown to mother-humpin’ little gooey bits! They’re jelly, for Christ’s sake. Your cleaning staff’s gonna be Four-oh-nining that lobby for the rest of the week.”

“It was quite a mess,” admitted the professor.

“A mess?” Dollins rubbed a beefy hand over his face. “There’s man-meat blown up, down, and around in every direction possible. You’ve got intestines festoonin’ the front stairs and eyeballs embedded in your ceiling. That’s more than just a goddamned mess, Knight!”

“Well yes,” answered the professor softly, “I do agree with you, of course. But I don’t understand your meaning.”

“I think what we’re trying to get at here, Piers,” LaRaja interjected in his softer, scalpel of a voice, “is how you could be so close to the explosion to be singed as you were, but to have nothing else happen to you. I mean, honestly now, it does seem at least a little bit amazing—doesn’t it?”

Knight spread his hands apart before him, presenting his body language as meek and uncertain, his face carefully set into an imploring map of confusion. His look crafted to give him as innocent an appearance as possible, using a voice calculated to ring with a desperate need to both please and find understanding, the professor answered;

“Gentlemen, I assure you, the only thing I know about my survival is that I’m overwhelmingly grateful to whatever force from beyond or accident of physics spared me any injury.”

“Spare us another evening of your ten-dollar vocabulary.”

“Jimmy, please,” answered Knight, forcing his tone to convey the sense that he was in some kind of shock, “try to understand. I was almost killed. I’m lucky to be alive.” The professor gave the large man a moment to let his words sink in, then added;

“I mean, did you question it two years ago when those men were shooting at you down in Red Hook? Do you remember that? How many rounds did they expend in your direction? Wasn’t it over a hundred? And yet you came through it without a scratch?”