by Gavin, Rohan
Outside, a black Fairway cab swung around the corner and skidded to a halt. Knightley jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran inside, breathless, to find Darkus and Tilly standing over the suspect. He took a moment to examine them.
“You okay?” he gasped.
They nodded.
Darkus took a moment to process his father’s features again, hardly believing his eyes. “You’re back.” A childlike smile crossed Darkus’s face. But his father appeared more interested in processing the crime scene. Darkus reminded himself that they had a job to do, and both he and his father had to remain professional.
“It would appear a good deal has happened in my absence,” Knightley began.
Uncle Bill appeared behind him, filling the doorway.
Knightley turned to face him. “Bill, you’ve got some explaining to do.”
Bill shrugged repentantly. “Aye, Alan, I know.”
Knightley pointed at Darkus. “What’s he doing here?”
Bill pouted and shifted on his feet.
“He’s thirteen,” said Knightley.
“He’s already building a case,” replied Bill.
“Is that right?” Knightley demanded.
“It’s too early to say,” said Darkus. “But I’m confident I’ll find an explanation for the facts.”
Knightley examined his son again, finding him hard to argue with.
“Aye, he’s a chip off the old block, Alan.”
“And what’s she doing here?” He pointed to Tilly.
“Helping you find your precious hard drive,” she answered. “This is one of the cops who took it.” She nudged the suspect in the ribs with her boot. The suspect grunted. “In return, I want the Combination, on a plate,” she continued. “Served cold.”
“I’ve got enough on my plate without you, Tilly. Go home. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Not until I find the truth.”
“I don’t negotiate with teenagers,” said Knightley.
“She’s useful, Dad . . .”
Knightley looked from Darkus to Tilly, possibly wishing he’d stayed asleep. His brows furrowed deeply, doing battle with each other, then he winced and swallowed, coming to a decision.
“Okay. I’ll agree to this coalition of the willing,” he announced, “on a trial basis only. And on one condition . . .” He addressed Tilly directly: “The moment you adversely affect this investigation, in any way, is the moment you cease to be involved in it. Are we clear?”
Tilly nodded. “Crystal.”
The suspect began to stir, finding the Taser wires still attached.
Knightley knelt beside him. “Where’s the Knowledge?” The suspect twitched but didn’t answer. “The hard drive—what have you done with it?” The suspect kept his mouth shut. Knightley moved back and grimly nodded to the workman, who prepared to use the Taser again.
“Wait!” shouted the suspect. “It’s in the garden.” He gestured toward the smoke drifting past the back door.
Knightley followed the trail outside to a makeshift bonfire, which was by now only a collection of dimly glowing embers. Darkus arrived behind him and immediately recognized the leather carrying case discarded nearby. In the center of the funeral pyre were the cremated remains of the hard drive, its circular disk melted beyond repair, its contents rising into the sky along with the last wisps of smoke.
“No . . . ,” whispered Knightley, defeated. He turned back to the house, his eyes glittering.
Darkus returned to the living room and stood over the suspect. “Who told you to do it?” he asked. “Who are you working for?”
“The book . . . ,” muttered the suspect. “The book told me to do it.”
Knightley cocked his head and leaned in next to his son. “What book?”
“The Code . . .”
Darkus went over to one of the cardboard boxes and lifted the lid, taking out a brand-new copy of the book from the top of the pile. Tilly opened another box, finding another batch of copies.
“We found the same thing at the bank robber’s house,” Darkus explained.
“Aye,” confirmed Bill.
“I read it myself, last night,” said Darkus. His father’s eyes went wide. “Don’t worry, it had no effect.”
“Singular,” said Knightley, and stared off into the middle distance, entering his customary state of complete absorption.
“Is he all right?” Tilly asked Darkus. “He’s not going to sleep again, is he?”
Knightley raised a finger to shush her.
“Strange forces are at work . . . And only one organization comes to mind: the Combination. At first it was only supposition. Now it’s probability.” Knightley looked down at the suspect lying prone on the floor. “Did the book talk to your partner as well?”
“No,” replied the suspect. “He never read it. He said he only takes orders from the top.”
Darkus and his father exchanged a look. Darkus turned to Bill. “Where is Bogey Two now?”
Less than a minute later, the white van arrived at the edge of an urban park, and the Knightleys quietly exited the rear of the vehicle with Tilly in tow.
They approached the center of the park and found the second suspect in plain view, standing by a paved recreation area. Knightley raised his hand to signal a halt, and they took cover under an elm tree. He then reached into his pocket and took out a small pair of binoculars, focusing them on the scene. Darkus reached into his own pocket, took out his own pair, and did the same. Tilly looked at the two of them, identically posed, their faces pressed against the eyecups.
“What can you see?” she asked.
Through the binoculars, they saw Bogey Two approach a group of half a dozen teenagers in hoodies loitering by the wire fence. The group exchanged words with him, obviously warning him off, but instead of leaving he unslung his sports bag and knelt down.
“He’s opening the bag,” observed Darkus.
Bogey Two unzipped the bag and reached inside. Darkus and his father both tensed up behind their lenses as the suspect’s gloved hand took out a copy of The Code.
“It’s the book again,” said Darkus.
The suspect took out another half-dozen copies and began distributing them to the teenagers, who turned them over in their hands uncertainly. Before the teens could react, they were interrupted by a piercing, high-pitched whistle. Knightley’s binoculars panned wildly to locate the source. Darkus’s lenses zeroed in on a nine-year-old boy standing lookout on a park bench, who was now stabbing an accusing finger in their direction.
“We’ve been spotted,” said Darkus.
The hoodies looked in the direction of the Knightleys, then scattered. Meanwhile, Bogey Two zipped up his sports bag, slung it over his shoulder, and sprinted away across the park.
“Come on!” shouted Knightley, and took off after the suspect, but almost instantly lagged behind, clutching a stitch in his side. Darkus and Tilly quickly overtook him. “Wait!” he shouted after them.
Bogey Two approached a children’s playground, hurdled a seesaw, and continued toward the main road. Darkus and Tilly deviated around the playground and moved to cut him off, with Knightley loping hopelessly after them.
Bogey Two turned back to see them in pursuit, tripped, nearly lost his footing, then pressed on and swung himself over the fence onto the sidewalk by the main road.
He looked left and right, weighing his options.
The white van accelerated out of an intersection, taking up position at one end of the street, marking its territory. The Ford sedan pulled up at the other end, blocking the way.
Darkus and Tilly reached the fence, unsure of what to do next.
“Wait!” wheezed Knightley, catching up with them.
Bogey Two looked right, looked left, looked right again, then ran straight across the road—not seeing a large London bus that was barreling down its own lane, in the blind side behind the van. Bogey Two felt a gust of wind, heard an almighty screech of brakes and a horn blast; he look
ed up at the red double-decker, then glanced down at the brown asphalt—which meant he was in a bus lane—then looked up again for the last time.
Knightley instinctively held out his hands to cover Darkus and Tilly’s eyes as a dull whump accompanied the suspect’s disappearance under the vehicle.
The bus barely registered the obstacle and lumbered to a halt at the side of the road. Darkus and Tilly parted Knightley’s fingers and peered out at the scene.
Bogey Two had been reduced to little more than a crumpled suit, blessedly facedown in the road. The body was intact, and there was a remarkable lack of blood visible, but there was no doubt he was dead. His sports bag was almost a hundred yards away, its contents discarded on the sidewalk, the book pages ruffling in the wind.
Darkus felt a rush of fear again. It was a definite, physical response: a prickling sensation across the back of his neck, accompanied by an increased pulse in his chest and ears. He controlled himself, remembering that although this was the first dead body he’d been unfortunate enough to encounter, he had spent a good part of the last four years in the presence of his father, who, to all intents and purposes, had been dead too.
“Stay here,” ordered Knightley.
Tilly looked nauseous, finding herself unexpectedly jarred. Passengers started spilling out of the bus to see what had happened.
“We mustn’t let them corrupt the scene,” said Darkus.
“What about it corrupting you?”
Darkus ignored his father and walked toward the body through the growing crowd of bystanders.
“Doc!” Knightley went after him, while Tilly waited on the sidelines.
Bogey Two’s pockets had been emptied by the force of the impact, spewing keys, cash, and bits of paper across the street, as if his whole person had been turned inside out and scattered for all to see.
Darkus knelt by the body, completely focused on the job at hand. He didn’t want to admit it, but the feeling of fear wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
“Don’t touch,” said Knightley.
“I won’t,” replied Darkus, taking out a pair of tweezers and carefully combing through the detritus that had formed a circle around the body.
“Careful.”
“It’s okay, Dad.” Darkus kept following the trail of paper with his tweezers, finding supermarket receipts, wadded-up money, and candy wrappers, until he paused, locating a rolled-up piece of paper with something scrawled on it. He gently unrolled it to reveal a note that said:
Star lot, Regency. 7:30 p.m.
Chapter 12
Gone to the Man in Black
As clues go, this one needed little unraveling. The world-famous Regency Auction House, located in South Kensington, was holding a special event starting at seven thirty that evening. The event was a charity gala auction to raise money for a London children’s hospital. Only hours earlier, the surprise “star lot” of the evening had been unveiled: a signed first edition of the bestselling book The Code, by Ambrose Chambers—the only known signed copy in existence. Regrettably, Ambrose Chambers himself was unavailable to attend due to travel and work commitments. All proceeds from the event would go toward pediatric research into the most virulent of childhood afflictions, a cause whose merit few could deny.
Knightley drove Darkus and Tilly to the venue in his cab, occasionally observing Tilly suspiciously in the rearview mirror. The fare on the meter had now ticked up to £500.40. Darkus took the opportunity to brief his father on every relevant detail of the case so far. Knightley digested the facts and found no fault with his reasoning.
“First-rate, Doc.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Knightley then described the unusual circumstances of his latest wake-up call, and the fact that his only recollections of the recent trance were two things.
“The number two. And the letter D,” said Knightley, mystified.
Even for Darkus, these two characters were too obscure to decipher, but he reassured his dad that whatever the meaning, they would work it out. Together.
Darkus observed that the last time they’d traveled in the cab, his father had kept the glass divider closed, keeping a safe distance between them: a clear partition between their two worlds. But now it was different—the glass divider was open. They were more than father and son. They were partners.
The plan was for the Knightleys to pose as prospective bidders. Bill would be confined to the van, monitoring the surveillance systems. The Code was sure to attract a good deal of attention, especially among those who viewed it with an almost religious fervor. These were the very people the Knightleys were seeking to investigate.
In private, Knightley explained to Darkus that if Bogey Two had been ordered to attend the auction, there was little doubt that the Combination had an interest in it, and other enemy agents would almost certainly be in place. However, they were still nowhere near a credible theory to explain The Code, the Combination, or the crimes. Knightley reminded him that the possibility of supernatural forces could not be dismissed.
Also in private, Bill explained to Darkus that his father’s obsession with the mysterious organization was still a belief based on conjecture, not fact; there was no evidence at all of supernatural involvement; and Knightley’s faculties were still impaired, and could not be relied upon.
For his part, Darkus decided to focus on the facts alone and forgo interpretation until a logical solution presented itself.
While Knightley went to examine the auction room, Darkus walked through the corridors and galleries to find Tilly sitting in the foyer surrounded by other bidders—all (including her) were reading The Code.
“Any symptoms?” he asked her.
“Actually, I really like it,” she said without looking up from the book. Darkus’s brows furrowed. “I’m just messing with you,” she admitted with a smile. “It’s everything that’s wrong with the world.” Her phone started vibrating again, and the word “Dad!” flashed up on screen. She quickly rejected the call.
“How many times has he called?” said Darkus.
“Sixty-three so far.”
“At least he cares.”
“He said that if I ran away again, he’d send me back to Cranston permanently. Looks like it’s ‘go to jail’ time.”
“Freedom’s a state of mind,” said Darkus.
“What’s that from?”
“Krishnamurti. He’s an Indian spiritual thinker.”
She looked him up and down. “You’ve got even more hidden in that brain than I thought.”
“Thanks,” said Darkus, unsure whether it was a compliment.
“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover,” she concluded.
“It would seem not.”
“I thought I could handle anything. I mean, have you seen what people post on YouTube? But that dead guy. That was something else.”
“I suppose I’m just a bit more familiar with that sort of thing.”
“How?” she asked, puzzled.
“From the Knowledge.” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I know a little about a lot of things. Or, conversely . . . not much about anything.” He looked unhappy at his own deduction.
“Relax. Most people don’t know anything about anything.”
“Very true,” said Darkus.
“You know, this is easily the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”
“It’s also the longest you’ve gone between hair colors. The brown does suit you, though.”
“You noticed.”
“It’s my business to notice.”
They stood opposite each other, and anyone who had known Knightley and his former assistant, Carol, could have been forgiven for seeing an uncanny resemblance in Darkus and Tilly.
“Well, we’d better take a seat,” said Darkus. “The auction’s about to begin.”
“You go ahead. I’m going to finish this chapter.”
Darkus nodded and started making his way through the crowd toward the main gallery, until a hand st
opped his arm.
“Darkus?” A male voice interrupted him. “Darkus Knightley?”
Darkus turned to see a medium-sized, middle-aged man standing before him, wearing a dark suit and trench coat. He had short-clipped dark hair and Coke-bottle glasses that enlarged his eyes unnaturally in proportion to the rest of his face. The result was that his features were almost impossible to describe, and Darkus would later have trouble remembering the exact details of his face—which was most unlike him. The stranger was virtually motionless, which lent the effect that his clothes hung off him like a scarecrow’s and gave very little impression as to what, if anything, lay beneath.
The crowd moved around the two of them as if they weren’t there.
“Do I know you?” asked Darkus.
“I’m a f-friend of the family,” said the man, with a slight stutter. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Names aren’t important. What is important is the Knowledge.” The man studied Darkus’s expression for any reaction.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a very clever boy,” the man continued, “but I’ve been watching you. In fact, I was watching you at Shrubwoods Hospice. I know that you know about the Knowledge.” The man’s features spread into a broad grin that made his face resemble an excavated skull.
“The Knowledge has been destroyed,” said Darkus.
“Not entirely. It still exists inside your head,” the man countered, examining Darkus as if he were a lab specimen. “Which is why I must warn you that any f-further interference by you in this matter will jeopardize both your life and your f-father’s.”
Darkus felt a familiar chill down his spine, accompanied by the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. “Why don’t you come and talk to my father? I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss it with you.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. If you end this investigation now, I won’t need to interfere in your life again. However, if you persist, I guarantee you will lose your f-father all over again—at best, to another coma; at worst, to a more . . . permanent state of unconsciousness.”