by Gavin, Rohan
“Who are you?” demanded Darkus.
“Do as I say, and spare yourself and your f-father a world of trouble,” he warned him. “Enjoy your evening.” He turned away and rejoined the flow of people. Darkus tried to follow, but within seconds the stranger had been completely absorbed by the crowd.
A moment later, Darkus was already struggling to recall the details of his face.
What he was left with, however, was a sizable dilemma.
If he told his father about this stark warning, the investigation would be aborted, and Darkus’s relationship with his dad would return to the everyday, becoming a faint shadow of its current incarnation. The case would remain unsolved, and all the possibilities of their working partnership would be banished to the realm of “what if.” However, if Darkus concealed the warning long enough to gather the necessary evidence, he could buy himself enough time to solve the case and cement the partnership with his father for good. This second option was too tempting to pass up, and Darkus was confident that he would find a solution before the stranger’s threat became a reality.
Besides, a “world of trouble” was still more appealing than a return to the domestic monotony of? Wolseley Close.
Darkus walked into the auction room with the secret weighing heavily on him. He sat beside his father in the back as the audience shifted in their seats and shuffled their catalogs. Bidding on the lesser items was already under way, proceeding swiftly and efficiently under the direction of a portly auctioneer in a three-piece suit. Above the podium a large screen displayed a picture of each item, from weekend getaways to collectible memorabilia. A security guard stood in the shadows backstage with his arms crossed.
Knightley’s nostrils flared as he scanned the faces of the prospective bidders, who all appeared to be extremely wealthy. He noted every minor tic as they raised their hands, competing to outbid each other. Knightley’s fierce expression was punctuated only by the report of the auctioneer’s gavel on the block, which caused a minute twitch with each hit.
Meanwhile, Darkus scanned the room for the man who had delivered the stark warning, but failed to find him. Tilly snuck in and sat beside him.
“Anything to report?” Darkus whispered.
She shook her head. “Nada.”
“Remember, tonight is for the children,” the auctioneer announced. “Do I hear fifteen to benefit the children? Fifteen.” He pointed to a bidder in the center of the crowd. “I have fifteen. Do I hear seventeen?”
A bidder in the front row raised his hand.
“Seventeen from the front row. Seventeen? Any more bids?” He paused another few moments, then slammed the gavel on the block. “Seventeen.”
The auctioneer did a pirouette, eliciting careless applause from the crowd.
“As you know, tonight is a very special night,” he went on, “and one particular lot I know is of great interest to many of you . . . I refer, of course, to the signed first edition of The Code, by Ambrose Chambers.” The crowd cooed and rumbled. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Chambers is a very private—let’s be honest, a completely private man. But fortunately for us, his literary agent, Bram Beecham, was generous enough to contact Mr. Chambers to procure us this very sought-after and unique item.” Darkus and his father exchanged a glance. “And, I might add,” the auctioneer continued, “tonight’s cause is one that is especially close to Mr. Beecham’s heart, as he lost his own beloved daughter, Samantha, to leukemia two years ago. So let’s pay a special tribute to her and say a heartfelt thank-you to Mr. Bram Beecham.” The auctioneer pointed off toward the back of the crowd. “Bram?”
Sitting at the end of a row, finding himself almost launched to his feet by the crowd, Beecham reluctantly took a bow, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else on earth.
“Thank you, Bram,” said the auctioneer as Beecham quickly sat down again. “So, let’s take a look at what we’ve all been waiting for . . .”
An assistant walked onto the stage carrying a small black leather case. Simultaneously a photograph appeared on the screen overhead, showing the title page, clearly signed:
The auctioneer made a show of opening the case. “Without further ado, may I present The Code, by Ambrose Chambers. A motivational—nay, inspirational—book, based on ancient mystical wisdom drawn from across the globe. A phenomenon that is currently topping the bestseller lists. I have here a signed first edition. The only one in existence.”
The auctioneer held up the book, opened it to the signature page, and displayed it to the audience, which in turn descended into reverent silence, underlaid by the faint hum of bidders fanning themselves with catalogs.
“Dad,” whispered Darkus.
“Yes?”
“Beecham told me he hadn’t had any contact with Chambers for months. But the signature’s dated three days ago,” said Darkus, indicating the image on the screen.
“Then it would appear Beecham was being economical with the truth.”
The auctioneer solemnly closed the book and replaced it in the black leather case.
“The bidding opens at ten thousand pounds. Do I hear ten?” A hand went up near the aisle. “Ten.” Now a catalog was raised. “Fifteen . . .” Another hand leaped up. “Twenty. I have twenty. I have twenty-five.”
A sea of hands began darting up across the room, so fast that Darkus couldn’t keep track of them. Each bidder appeared to be outfitted in either a dark suit or a black dress; each appeared equally sinister or equally innocent, depending on how one chose to view them.
“Thirty. Thirty-five!” called the auctioneer.
As the bids arrived in rapid succession, Knightley fell into a state of extreme concentration—or extreme confusion; it was hard to tell which. The slew of numbers being shouted and hands fanning catalogs seemed to have lulled him into a trance.
Darkus and Tilly both noticed it, turning to him.
“Knightley?” said Tilly.
“Dad . . . ?”
“Fifty!” announced the auctioneer, pointing to a woman in the front row.
“Dad,” Darkus repeated. “Say something . . .”
Knightley stared through the sea of hands, beyond the podium and the auctioneer, right to the very back of the stage.
“Presto,” he said mysteriously.
“What?” Darkus and Tilly said in unison.
“Presto,” he repeated.
“What’s he going on about?” asked Tilly. “Is he having one of his—”
“I don’t know—”
“I’m perfectly fine,” responded Knightley, staying focused on the back of the stage. “I’ve just spotted the Combination, that’s all,” he said calmly.
“Fifty! I have fifty thousand,” the auctioneer repeated exultantly, pointing to the woman in the front row.
“Where?!” Darkus whispered to his father.
“Mr. Presto. He’s extremely tall, with shoulder-length hair and a goatee, and he’s standing on that stage right now.”
“I don’t see him,” said Tilly.
Darkus mentally flipped through the contents of the Knowledge until he reached the letter P. “Presto . . . the illusionist . . . from the Disappearance of the Chancellor’s Briefcase.”
“Can someone please tell me what we’re talking about?” demanded Tilly.
“Presto is number two at the Combination,” explained Knightley, turning to her impatiently.
“If he’s number two, who’s number one?” she asked.
“I don’t know. That’s the thing about the Combination, it’s always changing,” snapped Knightley. “What I do know is that Presto’s taken the place of that security guard.” He pointed to the back of the stage.
“What security guard?” said Darkus.
Knightley looked up to find the guard had vanished. “Ye gods . . .”
“Fifty thousand,” the auctioneer repeated. “Going. Going . . .” He slammed the gavel on the block. “Go—”
The auctioneer stopped dead in his tracks and looked do
wn at the podium.
“It’s gone!”
The black leather case containing the book was no longer in front of him. The audience burst into fits of laughter and applause, thinking it was a joke.
“No. It really is gone!” the auctioneer shouted, looking around wildly, then calling frantically for the guards positioned around the room. “Security!”
Darkus stood up to get a better view. The audience looked at one another as the applause quickly petered out and was replaced by a piercing burglar alarm.
“Hurry,” said Knightley, and started wading through the tide of bewildered bidders who were now flooding the exits.
Darkus and Tilly made their way through the melee of tailored suits and dresses. A woman in pearls shoved Tilly out of the way, and Tilly shoved her back, shouting, “Hey, watch it, lady!”
Over the well-coiffed heads, Knightley spotted an unusually tall man in a security guard’s outfit walking in the opposite direction to everyone else, heading backstage. The trio set off after him, pushing through a set of double doors into a long corridor hung with fine art. Presto was already at the other end of it, his bony limbs running in long, measured strides, the leather briefcase in his hand.
“We’ve got you surrounded!” called out Knightley.
Presto let out a laugh and burst through another set of double doors, going deeper into the building.
“Why do they have to run . . . ?” moaned Knightley as they kept after him. Presto led them down another passageway past a row of sculptures, around a corner; then Knightley stopped dead, grabbing Darkus and Tilly by the scruff of the neck as Presto faced them at the end of the corridor, his shoulder-length hair half concealed, sticking out from under the security guard’s hat.
“Stop chasing, Alan,” warned Presto. “For your own good.”
“What are you talking about?” shouted Knightley, breathless.
Presto smiled and turned away, parting a pair of heavy velvet curtains and slipping through them.
The trio raced after him, beating back the curtains to find a narrow walkway and a black door. Darkus reached out and yanked the handle, but the door opened straight onto a brick wall. There was no doorway.
“Where’d he go?” demanded Tilly.
“His escape route was planned,” Knightley replied, testing the strength of the bricks, then pressing his foot against the linoleum floor. “He could be anywhere by now.” He examined the ceiling, then ran his hand over the wall, finding nothing.
“People don’t just disappear,” Tilly protested.
Darkus answered for his father: “Presto does.”
Bill met them at the security office located at the back of the auction house.
“We cannot see him on the cameras.”
“That’s no great surprise,” said Knightley. “What about Beecham?”
“I didn’t know he was a suspect.”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” Knightley reminded him. “Put a unit outside his address.”
Meanwhile, Darkus was lost in thought, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. “When Beecham put that first edition up for auction, he set a cat among the pigeons. Someone wanted it taken off the market . . . The question is why.” He assembled his thoughts, then turned to the auction house’s head of security, who was holding his head in his hands. “I need that photograph of the title page with Chambers’s signature on it.”
“Of course. If it would be of any use,” the man replied remorsefully.
“I believe it might,” said Darkus as the man left to fetch the evidence.
“What are you thinking, Doc?” inquired Knightley.
“It’s not about what I think, it’s about what I can prove.”
“Sound familiar?” Bill asked Knightley with a wink.
“All too familiar,” replied Knightley, his pride shaded by the faintest tinge of professional jealousy.
“He’s his father’s son; ye can be sure of that.”
Tilly looked at her phone nervously, then turned to Darkus. “I’m running out of time.”
“I’m afraid you are,” said Knightley, and nodded privately to Bill.
Bill frowned and opened the door to reveal Clive, looking exasperated in a crimson tracksuit.
Tilly froze, momentarily disoriented. “Dad . . . ?” Then she spun to face Knightley. “You told him where I am! You sold me out—”
“I told you,” he replied firmly, “that the moment you adversely affected this investigation, you would cease to be involved in it.”
“Investigation?” said Clive.
“What did I do?” Tilly demanded.
“You were clearly uncomfortable at the crime scene,” said Knightley.
“Crime scene?!” protested Clive.
“We had a deal!” Tilly shouted.
“That is as it may be,” said Knightley. “But although Darkus has performed adequately in your presence, the fact is that without distraction he may perform even better. I can’t have his judgment biased.” Knightley shrugged by way of apology. “I’m afraid I can’t afford the responsibility, Tilly.”
Tilly flushed with anger, and Clive moved toward her diplomatically, using her given name. “Now, come on, Matilda,” he suggested, “let’s be grown up about this. There’s no need to get all . . . wobbly.”
Tilly ignored him and looked to Darkus, who shook his head to indicate he had no prior knowledge of the betrayal. Then she looked back to Knightley, finding her resolve.
“Well, when you need help—and you will—you’ll know where to find me,” she said, and brushed past Clive. “Don’t worry, I’ll come quietly.” She surrendered, flashing the briefest of smiles at Darkus as she marched out.
“Now look here, Alan,” began Clive. “This won’t get past Jackie. She wants Darkus home in one piece. You can’t be involving kids in your . . . weird stuff. We’ll be having words, you and me—”
“I daresay we will, but until then, you’re interfering with my investigation. Bill, please show them out.”
“Aye, Alan,” Bill said, and maneuvered his bulk into the doorway, prompting Clive to retreat.
“Now, to business,” said Knightley, nodding to Darkus as Bill closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.
“She was useful, Dad,” said Darkus, finding it impossible to look him in the eye.
“She was distracting, Doc. As female counterparts frequently are. Now, we have a case to solve.”
In the blizzard of preceding events, Darkus had forgotten just how cold his father could be when it came to work. Despite all the changes that the last four years had wrought on Darkus, and the unique set of skills he’d acquired, he had somehow overlooked the simple fact that his dad was exactly the same as he had ever been. And Darkus was still the unappreciated son. He was only useful as a sort of reference manual; as a reminder of his father’s career, rather than his family. He was baggage.
The avalanche of thoughts tumbled together to form one logical conclusion: that the only way Darkus could truly prove himself to his father was to break the case on his own.
As if Knightley had divined what his son was thinking, he glanced at him across the room. “A penny for your thoughts, Doc.”
Darkus decided that if all his dad cared about was work, then that was all they would discuss. “Clearly Beecham is protecting Chambers. Now we must determine whether Chambers is somehow responsible for the criminal behavior of his readers.”
“And how the Combination is involved,” added Knightley.
“I’ve yet to see definitive evidence of a larger organization behind The Code,” said Darkus.
Of course, Darkus knew full well there was evidence of a larger organization, based on the stranger’s warning in the foyer. But childish as it might have seemed, he wanted to punish his father for banishing Tilly, in the only way he knew how.
“The evidence is clear,” said Knightley. “The officers who destroyed the Knowledge were instructed to do so by The Code. Now Presto has stolen the only
signed copy. Quod erat demonstrandum,” he concluded in Latin.
“Quod non erat demonstrandum,” Darkus argued. “It is not fully proved. The evidence is circumstantial. At this point it could be coincidence.”
Darkus knew that without the complete picture, his father would be unable to contradict him.
“You’re letting your emotions get in the way of your reasoning, Doc,” Knightley reprimanded.
“No, Dad, you are. You always said the facts must infer the theory . . . not the other way around. You believe in the Combination; therefore you believe it is responsible for everything that’s happened.”
Darkus was painfully aware of the fact that by ignoring the stranger’s warning his emotions had gotten the better of him, but on this occasion he couldn’t allow his father to win.
“I do believe the Combination is involved,” Knightley said frankly. “I wish I were wrong.”
“You said it yourself.” Darkus quoted from the Knowledge: “‘The vast majority of cases point to the lack of criminal organization in the world, the lack of higher reasoning, and the predominance of chance.’” He paused, constructing his argument for maximum impact. “You may have seen Presto, but no one else can identify him. If it was Presto, he may have been here for the purposes of petty theft, nothing more. Either way, there is still no evidence of a larger organi-zation—certainly not one with supernatural powers.”
Knightley sighed, losing patience. “There are monsters, Doc, just like the ones they talk about in bedtime stories, only these ones are real. As real as you and me, and they’re organized; they move in packs. You might not believe me—most people don’t, because they won’t allow themselves to.” He paused. “The greatest mercy bestowed on mankind is that their minds aren’t open enough to see what’s around them. But those with an open mind—children, for example—they can see them. And adults, if they look long and hard enough, they can see them too.”
“I suppose seeing is believing,” said Darkus.
The door opened and Uncle Bill rejoined them. “Tilly’s safely on her way to Cranston School, and there’s a unit staking out Beecham’s penthouse.”