Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (9 page)

“All in good time,” he answered vaguely.

Tilly narrowed her eyes, assessing the situation before letting Uncle Bill usher her out of the living room and close the door behind her.

Bill sat opposite the Knightleys, his homburg hat resting on his generous midsection. “Now, Darkus,” he began.

“Call me Doc.”

“Doc. Yer father and myself worked together on many of the cases ye apparently know so well.”

“I never saw your name mentioned,” said Darkus.

“That’s because ma name is not technically ‘Uncle Bill.’ It’s Montague Billoch.”

“You work for Scotland Yard,” said Darkus, remembering the name from the Knowledge.

“Indeed.”

Knightley added, “That’s where he got his nickname. Uncle Bill—Old Bill. The Bill—it’s slang for the police.”

“Logical,” said Darkus with a nod.

“Aye. Only I don’t work for any department ye or many other people will have heard of,” Bill went on.

“SO 42,” said Darkus.

“Aye,” said Bill. “Specialist Operations branch forty-two. Only among the likes of yer father and myself, it’s known as the Department of the Unexplained. It does not operate in the world of Draycott or the regular police force. It’s too secretive for that. It exists outside the regular world, just like the crimes it investigates.”

“And what crimes are those?” asked Darkus.

“Highly organized crime, parapsychology, the occult, the dark arts, and well nigh everything in between.”

“In other words . . . the Combination,” said Knightley.

“We’ll see about that, Alan,” said Bill, then turned back to Darkus. “Yer father and me don’t always see eye to eye. Alan believes there is
one
organization that is responsible for
all
these unexplained events. The Combination, he claims. I, however, find it hard to believe such a web is possible, and have yet to see the evidence.”

“That’s why I assembled all my cases into one file: the Knowledge,” added Knightley. “For reasons of security, I never referred to our enemy by name.”

“Indeed.” Bill explained to Darkus: “Yer father was preparing to hand over the sum total of all his investigations to prove or disprove his theory once and for all. But before he could do that, he had his wee . . . episode.”

Knightley nodded gravely. “Now the Knowledge is gone, and we’re back to square one. And my brain is nothing but a dull blade.”

Uncle Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the chair creaking under his weight.

“Now, Doc . . . how do ye feel about everything we’ve told ye?” he inquired gently.

Knightley waited with bated breath for his son’s response.

“I don’t have the empirical data to determine whether one organization is responsible for all my father’s cases,” said Darkus. “However, having had the chance to digest the Knowledge, I would agree with him that there are certainly connections: all those clues going missing, forensic evidence being mishandled or ruled inadmissible in court, witnesses changing their stories.”

Knightley cleared his throat and took over. “My memory’s not what it used to be, but Darkus knows the history. Throughout my career, there were clues, traces, that formed a common thread running through every case. Follow the thread and you locate the Combination.”

Darkus watched his father, concerned. It was clear that whether the Combination existed or not, his father wasn’t about to let it go. Uncle Bill shrugged, unconvinced, his chair creaking in complaint.

Knightley continued undaunted: “Clive’s daughter observes two police officers absconding with the Knowl-edge. You think that’s coincidence?”

Bill shifted in his seat again, apparently too exhausted to weigh the theories anymore. “I have bigger fish to fry, Alan,” he wheezed.

“And what, pray tell, are they?” said Knightley.

Bill sighed, uncertain whether involving Knightley would be beneficial or not. He produced a fresh cigar, struck a match to it, and resumed puffing smoke. “I have six unexplained bank robberies across six different counties, committed by six individuals with no criminal backgrounds,” he complained.

“It was on the news last night,” added Darkus.

“Piquant,” said Knightley. “Are there any patterns relating to age, gender, or ethnicity?”

“None whatsayever.” Bill blew a smoke ring.

“Any casualties as a result of the robberies?” continued Knightley.

“No.”

“Any suspects in custody?”

“Just one. And I’m off to see him shortly.”

“What about tools or weapons of choice?” Darkus ventured.

“Aye.
One
clue was discovered at the scene of every crime. Only it’s not a weapon, exactly,” said Bill, looking perplexed. “It’s a
boook
.”

Chapter 8

The Avid Reader

Knightley’s ears lifted at Bill’s last answer. His nostrils flared, and he leaned forward as if all his features were streamlining themselves, preparing for the hunt.

“A book. That is
most
interesting,” Knightley remarked. “And the particular book was . . . ?”

“A self-help book. Not something I go in for myself,” replied Bill, a little too defensively. “It’s called
The Code
, by Ambrose Chambers.”

“Doc? What do you know about it?”

“Only that it’s the work of a first-time author whose background is shrouded in mystery,” said Darkus. “And he’s never been photographed. Most believe it’s a marketing ploy. Since the book’s publication a few months ago, it has been steadily climbing the bestseller lists, combining New Age motivational strategies with ancient mythology and pop psychology. The reviews were mixed. The general consensus is that it’s harmless.”

“But clearly it’s not,” said Knightley.

“Now, Alan, there’s no evidence to suggest the book has anything to do with the crimes.”

“There’s no evidence to suggest the book
doesn’t
have anything to do with them either,” said Darkus.

“Exactly,” said Knightley. “And this bears all the hallmarks of our usual foe.”

“A’right. Seeing as you’ve decided to return to the land of the living, Alan, why don’t ye come with us? Prove the existence of the Combination.”

“What about Doc?” he asked.

Darkus looked from one man to the other, sensing his future was hanging in the balance.

“Ye said it yerself, Alan—if the Combination’s out there and Draycott’s men are compromised, Darkus is in more danger here,” reasoned Bill.

“You’re suggesting we bring him on the case? He’s only a boy.”

“With the mind of an experienced investigator . . . with
yer
mind, Alan.”

Knightley shook his head.

“In yer current state, Alan, we
need
him.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Darkus. “I’m coming.”

Knightley frowned. “What you’ve read in the Knowledge is nothing compared to reality, Doc. This is no urban myth. The forces of good date back through the centuries, and I understand their appeal. But the forces of evil are far older—and more powerful. And the closer you get to them, the more malevolent they become,” Knightley concluded, visibly anxious.

“If he’s going, so am I,” a voice interrupted them.

The three of them turned to find Tilly standing in the doorway.

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Knightley ordered.

“I’ve still got questions,” she replied.

Knightley gestured impatiently. “Fire away.”

“About my mom.”

Knightley went quiet. “Yes . . . I’m terribly sorry, Tilly—”

“Was it an accident? Or was it another one of your unexplained cases?” she demanded, biting her lip nervously.

Darkus realized she’d been eavesdropping on the entire conversation from outside the door.

“Because you know what I think?” she went on. “I think it had something to do with whatever you were working on, Knightley. And until I find out the truth, I’m holding
you
responsible for her death.”

Knightley swallowed hard, then composed himself. “Based on the state of the car, the investigation concluded it was a tragic accident, nothing more,” he replied in measured tones, controlling his emotions. “Your mother was the finest researcher I ever worked with. And she loved you very, very much. I did everything I could to protect her.”

“You couldn’t even protect your own marriage,” she answered back.

Knightley winced. “It’s never easy losing someone you love,” he said, unconsciously glancing through the doorway toward where Jackie’s voice could be heard from the kitchen. “And you, Tilly, learned that younger than anyone should ever have to . . . Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

With that, Knightley closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting them on his brow, as if soliciting guidance from a higher force. His lips pursed, and his breathing reduced to a shallow whistle through his nose.

“Dad?” prompted Darkus.

“Alan?”

Darkus drew closer, concerned. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He does this sometimes when he’s on a case. He’s just thinking. Alan . . . ?”

Bill nudged him; then nudged him again; then gently rolled up Knightley’s sleeve and took his pulse; then prized open his eyelids and checked the size of his pupils. He turned back to Darkus, flummoxed. “Well, I’m afraid he appears to be in another narcoleptic trance . . . Essentially, asleep.”

“But he only just woke up,” said Tilly.

Darkus felt a sick feeling return to his stomach. “Is it another . . . ‘episode’?”

“It’s too early to say. If it lasts longer than twenty-four hours, we ought to seek medical attention.”

“He’s not going back to Shrubwoods. I promised.”

Bill ignored him and continued to observe Knightley. “It appears to be stress-related—a relapse of some kind. Alan, if ye can hear me, give us some kind of a sign.”

There was no response.

“Dad?” Darkus persisted, tugging his arm.

Bill gestured to Tilly to leave the room, and realizing this was perhaps more serious than it first appeared, she obliged.

“Dad?” urged Darkus.

A curious expression passed across Bill’s face, and Darkus caught sight of it: as if his father’s mishap was somehow Bill’s good fortune.

“Don’t worry, Doc,” he said. “Leave this to me . . .” Bill paused a moment, then whispered to Knightley: “Alan, if ye want Darkus to help us with the case, give us some kind of a sign.”

His father provided no response.

“A’right,” said Bill. “If ye
don’t
want him to help us with the case, give us some kind of a sign.”

Darkus looked at Bill incredulously. He knew exactly where this was going. Knightley’s face remained as still as the surface of a lake; his body didn’t move a muscle.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” concluded Bill. “You’re on the case, Darkus.”

“But—”

“That is, if ye think you’re up to it.”

“Well, of course I’m up to it,” said Darkus defensively.

“Good.”

Darkus struggled to make sense of the predicament he found himself in. “But . . . what about Dad?”

“We’ll make sure he’s well taken care of. There’s not much ye can do for him here. And I’m afraid we don’t have time to waste.” Bill excavated himself from his chair and ushered Darkus toward the hallway.

Darkus lingered by his father’s side. He’d patiently waited four years for him to wake up, and through some cruel twist of fate his father had simply fallen asleep again. But this time Darkus knew he couldn’t remain in limbo anymore. His father’s return—albeit brief—had brought with it a valuable inheritance: a calling. And having honed the necessary skills over a number of years—albeit by accident—Darkus saw no choice but to answer the call.

Next time his father woke up, Darkus would prove himself a worthy partner.

“Sleep tight, Dad.” Darkus carefully laid a tartan blanket over his father’s lap. Then he looked up to see his mother watching from the doorway.

“I’m so sorry, Doc,” she choked, grabbing him in a hug.

Clive loitered in the background. “Now, now, dear.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Darkus reassured her.

Bill put a massive hand on her shoulder. “Jackie, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Although you’re his mammy . . . ,” he went on, “Darkus is safer with me.”

Darkus nodded slowly, expressing his agreement. Clive made no objection. Jackie turned pale.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Bill,” she said gravely.

“Right now, you’re in no position to protect him. We are.”

“What about me?” Tilly chimed in from the hallway, until Clive cut her off.