The Thirteenth Skull (27 page)

“Alfred, remember the Devil's Door? Remember what you said to me when I told you there was no hope? You have to go on, Alfred. Just a little bit farther. Just a little bit . . .”

The helicopter came to life, but the sound of it was muffled, the roar of the engine coming as if from behind a screen or curtain. Sam's face looked fuzzy around the edges as I began to slip through the membrane into that space—the white, centerless space that wasn't home but felt like home, warm and comforting and totally me-less.

“Here's the thing,” I told him. He had to bow his head close to my lips to hear me. “Here's the deal, Sam. With Mogart and the demons, I thought I was saving the world, but the main thing wasn't the world, it was me. This time . . .” I coughed. Blood filled my mouth and I forced myself to swallow it. “I thought it was all about saving me, but it was never me. It was the world. I'm going to save the world, Samuel. And there's nobody else who can save it but me.”

I couldn't see Sam at all anymore. But I saw the castle, not a collection of fallen stones, spotted green with lichen and worn down to pitiful shadows of what they used to be. I saw them as they were supposed to be: brilliant white, walls and parapets that rose to heaven, and standing on the ramparts was a knight in shining armor, his sword raised toward me in salute.

On the other side of the white space, I heard Samuel's voice. “Well, don't just stand there! Help me get him to the chopper!
Help me . . . !”

The knight upon the ramparts dipped his head.

00:00:00:13

I am scrambling up a mountain of fallen rock and razor-sharp crystal in the middle of the white, centerless space.

I confess to Almighty God . . .

Bloodied from my climb, I reach the summit. Here long grasses grow and caress my fingertips as I walk toward a yew tree, its branches bare.

. . .
to blessed Michael the Archangel . . .

A man stands under the outstretched arms of the tree. He looks a little like Barney Fife from the old
Andy Griffith
Show
.

“Al,” my uncle Farrell says. “It's about time you got here.”

. . .
to all the saints, and to you, Father . . .

He gives me a big hug; he's only pretending to be mad. Over his shoulder, I see a tall, white-haired man standing in the long grass, and the grass is blushing bright spring green.

Before the last knight, I bow my head and sink to one knee.

I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed . . .

“Oh, Alfred,” Lord Bennacio says tenderly. “It is I who should kneel to you.”

. . .
through my fault
—striking my chest with a fist after each
fault
—
through my fault . . . through my most grievous
fault . . .

He helps me to my feet, and now I see behind him a golden door and, beside that door, a large man with a flowing mane of hair.

Therefore I beseech you . . .

Smiling, my father raises his arm and a woman steps through the door. She takes his offered hand and together they stand, not moving, not coming to me, but waiting.

My mother takes me into her arms, and she is no ghost or dream. I can feel her. I can smell her hair.

I beseech you!

They gather around me. Bennacio laughs, pats my shoulder, and says, “Come, Alfred Kropp! You don't want to be late for the feast!”

Together we walk toward the golden door.

00:00:00:03

00:00:00:02

00:00:00:01

00:00:00:00

FINAL EXTRACTION
INTERFACE REACHED

EPILOGUE:
OIPEP EMERGENCY SAFE HOUSE
(ESH: “KINGFISHER”)
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE LONDON

That was my second death.

Which brought me to my third life: I didn't make it through the golden door. Just as I was about to step over the threshold, I heard a woman's voice calling me back. I didn't want to go back. I guess that isn't hard to understand. But the voice kept calling and the door began to recede into the white mist that also wrapped itself around the shapes of my mother and my father, then around me, until I couldn't feel them beside me anymore but felt something or someone else, hugging me, and then there was this sensation of falling and this being was falling with me. I didn't have to hear the voice calling me
beloved
to know who it was. I “pushed” against him. I was hungry and tired and I never wanted to leave my mom again, but I heard
Not yet, not yet, my beloved.

I told him I hated him. I told him it wasn't fair, that some fine guardian angel he was, letting me steal his Sword and letting all the knights get killed and me too—twice now. I wanted to stay with my mom.

Someone kept calling me, though, and that someone wasn't the Archangel Michael.

That someone was Abigail Smith.

“Alfred . . . Alfred . . . ! Alfred, can you hear me?”

I opened my eyes. I was lying in a bed inside a room with whitewashed walls and a wooden floor, and beside me on a little table was a vase full of flowers. Daisies, I think.

“Oh, crap,” I said. “Extracted again.”

She was sitting beside the bed, smiling, and the white on the walls seemed yellow compared to her dazzling orthodontics.

“More lives than a cat,” she said.

“Two down, seven to go,” I said. “Where am I?”

“A safe house.”

“Am I? Safe?”

“Of course you are.”

“Where's Sam?”

“He's here. Would you like to see him?”

“Maybe not right now. Did he tell you what happened after you left Camp Echo?”

She nodded. She took my hand. “I should not have left you there, Alfred.”

“Well, that's obvious,” I snapped back. “Why did you?”

“I believed the only hope of saving you was a direct appeal to the board.”

“And you didn't know what Nueve was planning?”

“Of course not. I left specific orders that nothing was to be done without my authorization.”

I thought about that. “It's hard to find good help these days, isn't it?”

She gave one of her gentle English trilling-type laughs.

“Dr. Mingus has been terminated. You won't be seeing any more of him.”

“That's good. He didn't have much of a bedside manner. What about Nueve?”

Her smile went away. “The Operative Nine has been suspended pending a full review of his actions upon my leaving Camp Echo.”

“Oh. What's that mean exactly?”

“It means he's in deep doo-doo.”

“You got the board to change its mind?”

“I made the board's mind irrelevant. I've taken on emergency powers, Alfred, which I am allowed to do under certain unique circumstances. And this circumstance certainly qualifies as unique.”

“What about Ashley? Is she in trouble too?”

“Don't you think she should be?”

“So you arrested her.”

She studied my face for a long time before answering.

“What do you think I should do to her?”

I thought about it. “Nothing.”

She seemed surprised. “Really? Nothing at all?”

“I don't think she ever wanted to hurt me. She was trying to protect me the best she could, but she was in a bad spot, because of Nueve. Because she . . . well, I guess she loves him. And you can't always choose who you fall in love with, like those girls in vampire stories or in real life when a girl falls for a doper. It's one of those things that just happen and then you're kind of trapped in a situation you want to control but can't. It's almost like being an Op Nine or a knight like my dad or even somebody really messed up like Jourdain.”

She was looking at me like a mom with a babbling kid who was just learning how to talk.

“The thing-that-must-be-done,” I said. “My father swore to protect the Sword no matter what, even if that
what
meant the Sword would kill him. When he was the Operative Nine, Samuel had to think the unthinkable, even if the unthinkable meant putting the SD 1031 in my head. See? Even Nueve and Mingus—well, maybe not Mingus, that dude was seriously messed up with a capital
mess
—thought there was no choice, and Ashley was given one between just abandoning me to Nueve or trying to help me the best she could . . . though I wish she had told me when she had the chance.

“And Jourdain. I think he really believed his dream that the Sword would come back if he took revenge for what I did to his dad. What happened to Jourdain anyway?”

Just like with Ashley, she said, “What would you like to happen to him?”

“Nothing. Well, he probably should get some therapy. We both should. I used to hate going to therapy, but now I'm thinking we should maybe do a group thing. Me, Sam, Ashley, Jourdain.”

She laughed like I was making a joke, but she didn't know it was only half a joke.

“Not Nueve?”

“I don't think therapy would do him any good. He'd probably just whip out his sword cane and chop off the therapist's head.”

Thinking of heads reminded me. “We gotta get those skulls back,” I said. “Put them back in the graves where they belong.”

“The twelve are being taken care of even as we speak,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Which leaves the thirteenth. What happens to me now?”

Again, just like with Ashley and Jourdain: “What would you like to happen?”

“What I'd like to happen, you can't give,” I said.

“I can give anything now, Alfred.”

“Oh, that's right. You've taken emergency powers. Queen Abigail. Well, when you say ‘anything' . . . ?”

“We could still extract you, give you a new identity, take you anywhere you'd like to go.”

“Give me a normal life.”

“Yes.”

“Insert me into a normal interface.”

“Yes.”

“And leave me alone.”

“Yes.”

“Forever.”

No “yes” this time. “For as long as I am in charge.”

“You won't be in charge forever.”

“It's the most I can offer, Alfred.”

“And if you lose your job . . . or when you retire . . . or maybe if somebody does something to you . . . then I'm fair game.”

“What's done is done,” she said carefully. “I can't go back and undo the past, Alfred.”

“I guess that's been my biggest problem,” I said. “Getting hung up on that—the undoable part.”

“You have another choice. An alternative.”

“Those are good to have. What is it?”

“Do you remember a year ago my telling you that we are always looking for fresh talent?”

“Yes. And I called you after I got home and you basically told me to grow up first.”

She smiled and again for about the tenth time I reminded myself to ask her about her oral-hygiene regimen. Her smile had the power to blind you.

“A lot of that has happened, hasn't it?” She didn't wait for my take on it, but hurried on. “Alfred, I'd like to offer you a position with the Company.”

She waited for it to sink in. It had a long way to sink, but Abby Smith was a patient person. She didn't move a muscle while I stared at her.

“A couple of days ago you people are sharpening the knives to lobotomize me, and now you're offering me a job?”

“That wasn't us,” she answered. “That wasn't
my
Company. We weren't created for it and we will not tolerate it. No, Alfred, you would be working directly for me. In return, I will see to it you receive the best of educations as well as the safest environment to pursue it. And, when you're eighteen, you can decide if you wish to stay with us.”

“What's the catch?”

“It might prove a bit . . . dangerous at times. But you've proven more than once that you're more than capable of handling yourself.”

“What about SOFIA? How do I know you're not just bringing me onboard to use me again?”

When I said the word “SOFIA,” her smile evaporated. The room got dimmer, as if she had flipped off a light.

“SOFIA is dead. The data has been purged from our systems and all the samples destroyed.”

“You could have told me about it. You had the chance. I asked in Knoxville about SOFIA and you said there was no such thing.”

“I believe I said there was no such
person.
”

“Ho, well, at least you were being honest about it. How do I know you're being honest now? How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don't, Alfred,” she said, and she sounded sad. “We've done very little to earn it. I can't give you a reason to say yes. To be perfectly honest, if the roles were reversed, I might very well say no.”

“So why shouldn't I?”

“Because you're something very special, and I'm not.” She stroked my forearm as she talked. “Though I've studied it all my life, I've never quite touched it, Alfred, not in the way you have.”