The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (19 page)

He was outside the car and walking up to the Jag before I could say anything. I heaved myself out of the cop car and followed him, holding the gun across my body. A big guy in a tan overcoat was stuffed behind the wheel of the little sports car. It was pretty clear from his expression that Bennacio and I weren't what he was expecting after being pulled over by the Highway Patrol.

“What's up?” he said.

“Don't be alarmed,” Bennacio said. He motioned to me and, as soon as I stepped forward, Bennacio ripped the shotgun out of my hand and pointed at the big guy's nose.

“Sure looks like I should be!” the big guy cried out, instinctively bringing his hands up.

“Step out of the car, please,” Bennacio said.

“Sure. You bet. Don't shoot me.”

He had some trouble getting his bulk out of the car, but being nervous probably wasn't helping his coordination.

“This is for your trouble,” Bennacio said, shoving the check at him. “I place it upon your honor to fill in an amount you feel is reasonable. Come, Kropp,” he said, and he tossed the shotgun at me. I caught it and halfheartedly pointed it at the incredulous guy, who didn't know what to look at by that point: Bennacio getting behind the wheel of his Jag, me holding the shotgun, or the blank check in his trembling hand. I walked around him to the passenger side and said, to be helpful, “We left the keys in the ignition”—motioning toward the cop car—“but it probably wouldn't be a good idea to follow us.”

I climbed into the car and Bennacio floored the gas before I could even get my seat belt fastened.

“You're awful trusting, Bennacio,” I said after a few miles had rolled by and it was clear the guy wasn't going to follow us in the borrowed cop car. “How do you know he won't write himself a check for a million dollars?”

“Most people are honest, Kropp. Most are good and will choose right when given a choice. If we did not believe this, what point would there be in being a knight?”

Then he reached across the seat, grabbed the shotgun out of my lap, and tossed it out the open window.

25

Through the rest of Pennsylvania, up into New York, Massachusetts, onto 95 up the New England coast, into New Hampshire and then crossing the border into Maine, we stopped only for gas (the Jag gulped it) and to pee, and once to pick up a lobster sandwich at the McDonald's drive-thru. I had no idea McDonald's served lobster sandwiches. I kept looking behind us expecting to see a dozen cop cars bearing down on us—or more AODs, maybe on Harleys this time, sacrificing speed for muscle.

Twenty miles from the Canadian border, hitting 115 along State Road 9, I noticed we had the northbound lane practically to ourselves, but the southbound lane was backed up for miles.

“Something's wrong,” I said. “Everybody's fleeing Canada.” It was hard to imagine, though, Armageddon starting in Canada.

“Most likely the border has been closed.”

“What'll we do?”

“We have no choice. We must cross.”

I pictured us flying through the barricades at 110 with the Royal Mounted Police racing after us. Right as I was picturing this, the first set of blue-and-reds shot out of the dark behind us. Soon there were three or four sets of them and I could hear the sirens from inside the car. Bennacio responded by speeding up, the needle hovering around 120. We roared past an electronic sign that was flashing: “Border Closed.”

“Look, this is bad, Bennacio,” I told him. “We gotta ditch the Jag and find a place to cross on foot.” It wasn't the brightest suggestion, given we were being chased by half the patrol cars in Maine.

Bennacio didn't answer. He kept our speed up until he saw the battalion of National Guardsmen with their assault rifles manning the crossing. The first line of soldiers had already gone to its knees and had taken aim at us.

He slammed on the brakes and we skidded about fifty feet to a stop. Then he said, “Get out of the car, Alfred. Make sure they can see your hands.”

I stepped out of the patrol car, my hands in the air, as somebody screamed into a bullhorn, “STEP OUT OF THE CAR—NOW! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

Behind us the cop cars rolled in, lights blazing, and a dozen brown uniforms took positions behind their open doors. I wondered how Bennacio was going to get out of this one.

“ON YOUR STOMACH WITH YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD, FINGERS LACED!”

Bennacio nodded to me and we lay on the ground, side by side. These last few feet of America were very cold. Somebody came and stood right over us, and I could see my reflection in the bright finish of his black shoe.

“Hi. This is the point where I ask what your business in Canada is tonight,” the wearer of the shiny shoe said.

“There is a card in my jacket pocket,” Bennacio said. “Before you do anything rash, I suggest you contact the person on that card.”

I couldn't see if Mr. Shiny Shoes got the card or not, but he walked away and was gone for some time.

“What's going on, Bennacio?” I whispered.

“I am calling in a favor.”

“I'm cold,” I said. Bennacio didn't say anything.

Somebody grabbed me by the collar and hauled me up. A guy in a blue Windbreaker, the owner of the polished shoes, handed Bennacio the card and said, “This is your lucky day.”

“It isn't luck,” Bennacio answered. “It is necessity.”

We climbed back into the Jag. The guy in the blue Windbreaker and the very nicely shined shoes waved to the border guard. He hit the code to open the gate. The guy in the Windbreaker stepped back and waved us through.

“Good luck!” he called, as we roared through the gate into Canada.

“Necessity,” Bennacio muttered.

26

I had never been to Canada, but I didn't see much of it because it was dark and Bennacio took secondary
two-lane roads. He drove through the night like the
hounds of hell were after us. I knew Halifax was on the coast
and probably he had a plane waiting there for him, but what
good would it do if all flights were grounded? I tried to sleep,
but you try sleeping in a Jaguar going 120 miles an hour in a
strange country.

We crossed a long bridge at three a.m. and Bennacio told me we were in Nova Scotia. We may as well have been on the dark side of the moon for all I could tell. We drove in silence until a faint orange glow appeared on the horizon. At first I thought it was the sun rising, then remembered it was three a.m.

“We may be too late,” Bennacio said.

He slowed down to a leisurely eighty and, coming up on a huge fire, I saw we were at a private airstrip. There was some kind of wreckage burning on the runway.

Bennacio pulled into an access road that led directly to the airstrip. Three guys were standing at the end of it, next to a tan Chevy Suburban, wearing long brown robes like the one Bennacio wore the first time we met.

“I thought you were the last knight,” I said.

“I am,” he said. “And I believe I have told you, Alfred, that the Sword has many friends.”

He stopped the car and we got out. A light, freezing rain was falling. I could hear the ocean and taste the salt on my tongue. Bennacio left the headlights on and we gathered in front of the car. The air seemed to sparkle as the light danced in the tiny droplets of rain.

One of the guys came toward Bennacio. They kissed each other on both cheeks, and then the guy gave him a big hug and looked at me.

“Cabiri, this is Kropp,” Bennacio said.

“He is a Friend?” Cabiri asked, studying me.

“A Friend and a Wielder.”

“Indeed! Then he is my friend,” Cabiri said, and he kissed both my cheeks and wrapped me in the same tight bear hug.

He turned to Bennacio. “We had a little trouble, as you can see.” He nodded toward the burning wreckage. “They came on foot, apparently, and that took us by surprise. We expected an aerial assault. They used this.”

He nodded to one of the guys standing behind him. He was toting what looked like an oversized bazooka, but I figured it was probably a rocket launcher.

“Derieux?” Bennacio asked.

“He was inside the plane, Lord Bennacio.”

Bennacio closed his eyes. I saw the other two brown-robed guys staring at me and I looked away.

“Diabli!”
Bennacio muttered. “Did they escape?”

Cabiri smiled grimly. He jerked his head toward the burning plane. “Come, I will show you.”

We followed him across the tarmac, past the twisted, burning husk of the plane, where the rain hissed and spat and smoke billowed upward, to the other side of the airstrip. Three men in black robes lay there faceup, staring blankly straight up into the rain. Bennacio pulled the hoods away from their faces and studied each one for a long time. He gestured toward the one lying in the middle, the biggest of the three, with a large, flattened nose and black slits for eyes.

“This is Kaczmarczyk,” he said. “The other two I do not recognize.”

Cabiri turned his head and spat. “Local fishermen, I suspect, recruited by Kaczmarczyk.”

“Perhaps.” Bennacio turned from the bodies and stared at the burning plane, and the light of the fire danced in his gray eyes.

“We cannot stay here, Bennacio,” Cabiri said. “More will come when Kaczmarczyk fails to report. Many more, I fear, than the four of us can manage.” Actually, five of us stood there, but I guess Cabiri wasn't counting me. “Come, my house is not far from here. You may rest and we will decide our course.”