Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (26 page)

“I’ve got a car about two klicks that way . . . ,” he said, pointing into the woods. “That’s kilometers by the way.”

“I know that,” she said curtly.

“Who’s there?” announced Burke. His goggles seemed to be in focus now, as he suddenly picked up speed, hopping over tree stumps and zeroing in on them. “Stop!”

Tilly and Darkus took off through the woods and down a steep incline. Darkus used one hand to secure his hat and the other to grab onto tree branches as they descended into a clearing. Tilly turned and saw Burke sprinting toward them with a demonic smile on his face. Darkus had paused to pull a compass from his inside pocket.

“Come on!” she cried out, and pulled him along with her.

Burke hurdled a fallen tree and went after the blurry infrared images in his goggles. He was gaining on them.

Tilly led Darkus under the dim moonlight through a thick corridor of foliage. Darkus glanced at the luminous dial of his compass and pointed in the direction of an embankment that bordered the school driveway. A teacher’s car drove past, headlights trained ahead, unaware of the commotion.

Darkus and Tilly scrambled across the embankment with Burke in hot pursuit.

“I don’t see a car!” she shouted.

Darkus moved toward a pair of trees with a large bush in the middle. He yanked one corner of the bush, which collapsed to reveal it was only a leaf-covered tarp. Underneath, almost wedged between the two trees, was the black Fairway cab, with Bogna waiting in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel.

“Get in,” ordered Darkus. Tilly did as she was told. Darkus got in the backseat beside her and closed the door.

“
Mój Boże!
” Bogna cried out, and flicked on the headlights, catching Burke right in the high beams.

“Argh!” Burke’s night vision became a blinding snowstorm. He shielded his eyes, staggered back, tripped over a stump, and fell out of sight. He would later swear that what he had seen was a London taxi.

“Floor it, Bogna,” said Darkus.

Bogna stamped on the accelerator, steering the taxi out of its hiding place and performing a wide arc, bouncing through the undergrowth, before gaining traction and rejoining the driveway.

The Fairway swerved erratically then headed for the school gate, leaving Cranston in its wake. It bounced once more as it straddled a speed bump, then it indicated left, but turned right, and was gone.

Chapter 23

Meanwhile, Back at the Lab

When Miss Khan entered her classroom at eight o’clock the next morning, she instantly knew someone else had been there before her.

For a start, there was a homework assignment on her desk that clearly hadn’t been there when she left the building the previous evening. It was a dozen pages thick, neatly presented in a blue plastic folder. The title page read:
“The Nature of Velocity” by Matilda Palmer.

Miss Khan flipped through it, finding a series of well-prepared diagrams, results, and conclusions, annotated with sections of ticker tape. She set it down again, flummoxed. She knew Tilly had potential, but this was most unlike her.

Then Miss Khan noticed that the door to her lab annex was ajar. She slowly pushed it open and walked inside. Her white lab coat was on its hanger. Her plastic safety goggles and soldering iron were carefully set out on the lab bench just as she had left them. However, the main feature of the lab was missing: a series of clamps and wires lay on the table, but the modified asthma inhaler was gone.

Miss Khan swallowed, feeling her throat go dry with apprehension. If Tilly had run off again, what on earth would she be doing that could require the use of pepper spray foam? And if Tilly did have cause to use it, would it even perform properly and with adequate range? It was still a work in progress. In the future, enhancements would have to be made. Perhaps other devices would need to be designed, with a wider range of capabilities. That’s what her father would have wanted. “Make the tool to fit the job,” he always said.

Against her better judgment, Miss Khan felt her brain come alive with possibilities . . .

Chapter 24

The Power of Suggestion

The sun rose over Wolseley Close, touching the roofs of the neatly arranged mock-Tudor houses, painting a picture of suburban bliss.

Clive’s Jag sat in the driveway. Jackie stood behind the kitchen window with a phone cradled on her shoulder, waiting for the kettle to boil. Clive yawned and drew the curtains in the master bedroom. His murky recollections of the previous day’s events had mostly evaporated like a long, disturbing dream that he’d thankfully woken up from. Now he was left with the recurring problem of his daughter, who had apparently escaped from school—again. Life, to all intents and purposes, had returned to normal.

He went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, and looked deeply into his tired, gray eyes. Whatever he’d experienced yesterday had been a figment of his imagination, a momentary lapse of reason, nothing more. It was probably a perfectly understandable side effect of
The Code
, part of his transformation from the old Clive into the new one: Clive 2.0.

He had located an 0845 number in the text of the e-book and dialed it, hoping for some reassurance, but he got only a recorded message. Not exactly great customer service. He’d left his name and cell phone number as requested. He then read a bit more of the book, and was glad to report no further complications of any kind. He hadn’t told Jackie about what had happened at the track. Best not to worry her; and besides, he couldn’t have anyone interfering with his spiritual growth, not even her.

He believed he’d managed to convince the director and crew that the supercar’s engine control unit had malfunctioned, resulting in a bout of unintended acceleration. It could happen, he told himself.

Clive checked to make sure the e-reader was still on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet, then zipped himself into his favorite lime-green tracksuit and jogged downstairs.

Jackie was still talking on the phone when he entered the kitchen. She automatically handed Clive a mug of hot tea and finished her call. “Well, if she contacts you, I want to be the first to know . . . Thanks. I will . . . Okay, ’bye.” She put the phone down.

“Thanks, love,” Clive responded, sipping his tea. “Think I might pop over to Homebase. Get the thingy for the trimmer.”

“Aren’t you remotely interested in where or how your daughter is?” said Jackie sharply. “I’ve been on the phone to everyone we know.”

“She’ll turn up. She always does,” said Clive cheerily, and poured himself a bowl of Special K.

“I can’t reach Darkus or Alan either.”

“I’m sure they’re just enjoying some father-son time,” Clive mused. “Lovely day out there, isn’t it?” His left eye twitched slightly as he poured the milk.

“Yes, it is,” she replied, looking at him quizzically. “Are you all right, Clive? You’ve been acting . . . funny, ever since you got home last night.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I might just be—I don’t know—relaxed, happy, and at one with myself??”

“Yes, Clive. Frankly, it is.”

“Well, get used to it, Jax,” he said. “It’s the new me.”

“I’m not sure I like it.”

The phone started ringing, and Jackie leaped for it while Clive sat down to eat his cereal.

“Hello?” she said. “Oh, hi, Bev . . . Yes, I can get to my computer. Why? What’s this about?” She listened to her friend chatter at the other end of the phone. “He what . . . ?!” She glanced at Clive suspiciously, then walked around the corner to her office nook.

Jackie balanced the phone on her shoulder, leaned over her computer, wiggled the mouse, and clicked on YouTube. A list of the most popular videos flashed up. A little way down the page was a link entitled
Leaked: Clive Palmer On-Air Meltdown
. Jackie slowly put the phone down on her friend, and clicked the mouse. The video loaded up and began showing the cockpit-cam footage:

Clive was wrestling with the wheel of the supercar, screaming at the rearview mirror, drool streaking his face. “You wanna play?” he shouted hysterically. “What are you?! Huh?”

Jackie kept watching with mounting horror.

On-screen, Clive stepped on the brakes, his face contorting horribly, as if it were being sucked through the business end of a vacuum cleaner. He was mumbling indecipherable words, speaking in tongues.

Jackie clicked Stop and marched back into the kitchen to find the bowl of cereal half-finished and Clive exiting the opposite doorway, his tracksuit swishing.

“Clive? What happened at work yesterday? It’s all over the web!”

“Is it?” he answered from the entrance hall. “Must’ve been one of the crew. I think they secretly hate me.”

“What’s going on? Do you even still
have
a job?” She turned the corner to find the front door open and Clive already getting into the Jag.

She stopped in the doorway, confused.

“Clive, I’m talking to you,” she insisted.

“That’s nice, love,” he replied, starting the engine and backing out of the driveway, then pulling away, beeping twice as he went.

Jackie watched him go, speechless.

Moments later, another car pulled into the driveway in the Jag’s place, taking out an ornamental gnome as it lurched to a halt. It was a black Fairway cab.

“Alan, thank God,” said Jackie, approaching the cab only to find Bogna behind the wheel and Darkus and Tilly in the backseat, along with two laptop computers, two coffee mugs, two blankets and a half-eaten packet of chocolate digestives, all of which gave the impression of a mobile headquarters. “Doc? Tilly?” said Jackie. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a stakeout,” announced Tilly.

“We’ve been waiting for Clive to vacate the premises,” explained Darkus. “We need to talk. Privately.”

“Hello, Mrs. Jackie,” said Bogna.

“Hello, Bogna,” she replied, confused. “Where’s Alan?”

“I’ll explain everything inside,” said Darkus as they piled out of the cab.

Jackie followed Darkus and Tilly into the kitchen, then unconsciously filled and put on the kettle. Outside the window, Bogna kept watch on the street.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment, Darkus,” his mother stammered. “Clive is having some kind of . . . breakdown. And honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I’m the common factor here. First Alan’s breakdown, now Clive’s, Tilly’s truancy, your social problems—”

“Mom,” said Darkus firmly, “I don’t have social problems. And you’ve got to listen to me.”

“Okay,” she answered hesitantly.

“Dad’s gone. He’s been taken.”

“Taken? By who?”

“An organization called the Combination,” said Darkus.

“The Combination?”

“He’s talked about them before, hasn’t he?”

“In passing. You know he didn’t share his work with me. Only with . . .” Jackie paused and looked at Tilly, clearly referring to her mom. “He never told me anything.”

“Okay,” said Darkus. “Then tell me what you know about Morton Underwood.”

“Morton? Your godfather? Well, Morton died. It wouldn’t be right to speak ill of the dead.”

“He’s not dead, Mom.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll tell you,” she said, wasting no time. “I never liked the man. There was just something
not right
about him. Something dead inside.”

“Can you think of a way to find him?”

“No clue.”

“Do you have any pictures of him?” asked Tilly.

“Let me think . . .” She pondered. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single photo of him. Isn’t that strange?”

Darkus and Tilly looked at each other.

“Have you got time for a jam sandwich?” Jackie added.

“Possibly not,” Darkus responded, then turned to Tilly. “Uncle Bill’s sedated, Mom doesn’t know anything, Dad could be anywhere. It looks like this is all we’ve got . . .” He took out his father’s scribbled note:

Clive left Homebase pushing a cart with all manner of household goods protruding from it: rubber hosing, stackable drawers, a shelving unit. He didn’t really know what had come over him in there. He seemed to have just bought everything. He shrugged and continued rattling across the parking lot.