Brooklyn Knight

by null

  “You were never one to give up,” the professor mused to himself while waiting for Bridget to stretch out the cramps that had invaded her muscles while she dozed on the uncomfortable slats. “Not that it did you very much good in the end.”

  Dollins’ remains had been brought up out of the basement in several bags, all three of them giving off a reeking steam. When questioned by LaRaja, the firemen explained that the body had been so charred it had crumbled when first they attempted to move it. In a whisper that Knight had caught only because he could read lips, the fireman stopped by the precinct house’s captain admitted the only way he and his men could gather up the detective’s remains had been with a shovel.

  Within hearing distance of the conversation, LaRaja had nodded his understanding, simply staring at the men carrying away his partner as if they were moving out nothing of any more consequence than lumps of kitchen trash. Knight watched the detective’s face carefully, however, witnessed the subtle hardening of the older man’s eyes, the bursting of capillaries within them from the strain of holding back his tears. He also noted the slight draining of the policeman’s usually far brighter spirit.

  The changes did not encourage the museum director.

  LaRaja was in his fifties, old for a police detective. He had his twenty years in, could have retired at any time over the preceding six years. He continually put off those who questioned him over the fact by saying he wanted a larger piece of the retirement pie, that he would “laugh all the way to the bank” once he made his thirty.

  The truth was he had always enjoyed the work, and once partnered with Dollins had enjoyed it even more.

  But now the big man was gone, burned to death by a thing barely aware of the fact that it had taken the detective’s life. Knight was certain the monstrosity’s tally would have been far higher if Dollins had not confronted it. Calling on the powers that had granted the creature its momentary existence came at a price. Once its task was completed, it was understood the demonic presence would be free to spill as much blood as it could in whatever amount of time it had remaining to it. Dollins had sacrificed himself to contain the horror—to keep it surrounded by brick and concrete.

  How, Jimmy? Knight wondered, his mind unable to find even the beginnings of a theory. How did you manage to contain such a thing?

  The professor’s unspoken question was not unreasonable.

  He had recognized the odor and color of the creature sent to the property room. He knew the standard list of demons, knew of what they were capable. Even if the thing sent against them had been the most minor of its species, still Dollins should not have been able to contain it. It was a creature of mindless needs. Once it had procured the Dream Stone, done as requested of it, then it should have been freed to follow its own desires.

  Thousands should have died.

  Why they had not was a complete and utter mystery to the professor.

  “My God,” he muttered, “if that thing had managed to reach the surface …”

  “What thing?”

  Knight’s eyes went wide with mild surprise as he realized he had spoken aloud, at least, loud enough for his assistant to hear him. The pair had just reached the front doors of the precinct house, the professor’s fingers around the handle, ready to usher them out to the street. Caught somewhat off-guard, Knight stalled, responding as if he had not heard Bridget’s question. When she repeated it, he offered;

  “Oh, forgive me. I was just thinking of the fire—thinking out loud, I suppose. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” Her tone soft, sympathetic, she stifled a yawn, then added, “It really must have been pretty intense to do what it did to that detective, though.”

  “Oh,” answered the professor, again slightly surprised. “I didn’t realize you saw, ah, heard… .”

  The two stared absently at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say next. Silently agreeing that perhaps they should avoid the subject for the present, the pair passed through the station house doors and into the darkness of early morning.

  Leading the way back to his car, Knight said, “You know, it’s actually just dawned on me, I still have your luggage in my trunk. We never dropped it … ,” and then, the professor finally realized just how intense a whirlwind he had made of the redhead’s first day in New York City. His mouth hanging slightly open, he apologized;

  “Oh, bless all the tiny monkeys, I’m so sorry—I just realized … we never got around to … oh my, I am embarrassed. I was having such a grand time escorting you about … I never had the good sense to ask where you were staying, did I? Or what arrangements you had made. And now …” Knight’s voice trailed off for a moment as he struggled to regain his composure. Searching to find the best thing to do, he asked, “Is there someone waiting up for you? Waiting to hear from you? I mean, it is the middle of the night, but—”

  “It’s all right, Professor,” Bridget answered. Taking a moment to stifle a more aggressive yawn, she then continued, saying, “I actually have a sorority sister who lives in Queens—Stephanie Buddenhagen. I was going to be staying with her and her roommate until I could find a place closer to the museum.”

  “Is it too late? Can I take you there now? Anything—”

  “Relax, please, sir,” the redhead cut Knight off, a trace of humor in her voice. “I called her hours ago, told her what had happened. I also told her to go to bed and that I would get back to her in the morning.”

  “But, ah …” Knight paused, uncertain what exactly to say next. Slightly amused at his discomfort, the redhead continued, telling him;

  “I figured if I didn’t end up spending the night in jail I would impose on you and bunk on your couch tonight. You do own a couch, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I … I mean …”

  “Listen,” said Bridget, her tone going a trifle shy, but retaining a sense that she was certain of what it was implying, “I’ll be honest. After all we’ve been through, I just want to get some sleep.”

  “But, Bridget, your family—won’t they be worried?”

  “I called home after I called Stephie,” answered the young woman. “And don’t worry; I didn’t tell them anything to get worried over. You know how families can be. And really, I don’t want to spend the rest of the night answering a lot of questions—especially ones I don’t know the answers to. That’ll just make them crazy.”

  “Yes,” mused Knight absently. “That’s certainly one of the ways families can be.”

  “Right. I told them all the things they wanted to hear—how excited I was, how wonderful my new boss was, how big New York City is … blahblahblah …” The redhead’s voice trailed off for a moment. Then, finding it once more, she added, “And not only did I not want to get into any kind of long discussion, let alone an argument; I also …” She paused for a moment, then said, “I didn’t want them to know that I don’t want to be alone.” Staring at the professor, her voice went softer as she said;

  “I know it’s an imposition … but I’d really just like to spend the night under your roof. I, I know it’s ridiculous, that there’s no sane reason for it, but … I think I’ll just feel safer there than anywhere else.”

  Knight was certain there was nothing untoward or sexual in the nature of Bridget’s request. She had been through a tremendous ordeal, was in a strange city, a vastly larger, as well as colder and more impersonal, one than she had ever known. And although, like any man, he did not relish admitting uncomfortable truths to himself, the professor was fairly certain that at that moment young and beautiful Bridget Elkins most likely saw him more as a father figure than anything else.

  “Of course you may stay in my humble home,” he said, surrendering to the proper and making his tone as parental as possible. “It happens that I have a quite excellent couch, for the purpose of napping, that is. Trust me, it’s been very well tested. I’m certain I can scare up a spare pillow or two and even a blanket.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Bridget answered as they got
into the car. Closing her door, the young woman began strapping herself in. Then, just before Knight could actually begin driving, she added;

  “And, once we get there, while you’re making me a cup of hot tea, or whatever you serve to traumatized young ladies to help them regain their sanity, or at least their composure, you can explain to me how it is you can fly.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Knight had not answered his assistant immediately.

  Backing out of his parking place, he had quickly moved into the light, but still present as usual, 3:00 A.M. traffic and driven off. At the first red light, one in the Grand Army Plaza traffic circle that the professor never seemed to catch when it was green, he explained that they had returned to the area of the museum because he lived close by and that he would be more than willing to have such a discussion as she had proposed once they reached his home. Nervous enough about having blindsided her new boss, Bridget was more than willing to put off their talk as well.

  Knight’s home proved to be an inauspicious brownstone building in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, even closer to the museum than the young redhead thought it might be. Bridget found her curiosity about the professor’s home thwarted by both the darkness and the street’s lack of adequate lighting. Attached on both sides to similar structures, it seemed simply another building among many.

  “So, you own your own brownstone?”

  “It came available when the market was right.” As Knight slid his car into line with his garage’s entrance, he asked his assistant, “Tell me, do you know why they were called ‘brownstones’ way back when?”

  “I’ll bite—why?”

  “Because they’re made out of brown stones, of course. Well, a reddish brown sandstone to be precise. Very popular building material, back in the day, as they say.”

  On the one hand, Bridget grimaced at being caught by such an obvious word puzzle. On the other hand, having heard from several different sources before coming to New York that parking came at a high premium in the city, she was suitably impressed when the brownstone turned out to come with its own garage. As Knight pressed a button on a small remote control attached to his sun visor that began the opening of his garage door, the young woman commented;

  “A New Yorker with his own private parking spot. Pretty ritzy. I mean, something on this order makes you officially one of the elite—yes?”

  “A rather knowledgeable, local-color comment for someone who claims to be from Montana.”

  “I do read,” answered Bridget.

  “Yes,” replied Knight, fatigue allowing his voice to grow just the slightest bit testy. “Those lovely green eyes of yours get put to all sorts of purposes, don’t they?” As they pulled into the darkness of the garage, the comment caught the young woman somewhat off-guard. If the professor’s tone had been even a touch harsher, the redhead could have easily slid from nervous to frightened. Realizing he had no right to take his mistake out on her, however, as the garage’s automatic lights came on, he quickly added;

  “Forgive me. If I should have learned anything over the years, it’s that the past is the past, and that there isn’t a blessed thing one can do about it.”

  Shutting down his car’s engine, the professor hit his remote once more, returning his garage’s door to its closed and locked position. As its mechanism slid quietly into place, he turned once more to his assistant, telling her, “Come, let’s see if I don’t have the right blend of tea to regain your sanity for you—or at least your composure. Then we can talk of ships and shoes and sealing wax … and other flights of fancy.”

  SOME FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER THE PAIR HAD MADE THEIR WAY FROM Knight’s garage to the main hallway of his first floor, which led through his living room and finally to the kitchen. All along the way Bridget had made note of the craftsmanship to be found in every aspect of the professor’s home, as well as the abundance of fine pieces that graced all its nooks and corners. His well-cared-for furnishings seemed to be completely made up of antiques. Every shelf held at least one statue, fossil, or bronze casting, every wall at least one painting, print, or mural.

  “It’s like being in a wing of the museum,” Bridget commented as Knight put a pot of water on to boil. As she studied a small carved-ivory figure of obvious Chinese origin she found on its own small shelf over the kitchen table, she asked with a trace of humor, “You haven’t been taking any pieces out ‘on loan,’ have you?”

  “Ah, your priceless wit must have kept the livestock in stitches,” the professor tossed back at her. Rummaging through his cabinet, he offered, “Lipton, or something made out of bits of fruit rather than tea?”

  “Really?” Blinking hard to fight the fatigue tearing at her, she asked somewhat in surprise, “Lipton? You don’t have a cupboard filled with little tins of exotic dried leaves gathered from a score of ethnic marketplaces from around the city? Some tana leaves filched from the Imhotep exhibit? I think I’m disappointed.”

  “However will I bear the crushing burden of not living up to the expectations of another?” Moving his head from around the cabinet door, Knight added, “Lipton is a fine tea—I know it must be, for it’s what my Asian friends all drink when no one is looking. Will that be good enough for you, or should I dispatch a runner to the British East India Company?”

  Bridget was about to throw out another wry comment, then stopped herself. A sudden flash of inspiration revealing to her why the two of them were verging on antagonism, she pulled back, accepting the offered tea, while adding an apology.

  “Let’s not get brittle with each other. I know this is my fault. You told me to walk away and not look back. I tried—I swear—but I couldn’t find a cab. Maybe I walked the wrong way, or maybe I just had to know what was going on, but whatever it was, I got scared. It was dark and you were all ominous, and …”

  “And you came back to the museum because,” Knight said, finishing her thought, “even if there might be some kind of danger there, it was the only place you knew, and the only person you knew in town was inside it.” As the redhead nodded sheepishly, Knight continued, suggesting;

  “All right, let’s do this. Tell me what you saw.”

  The professor was fairly dismayed when Bridget revealed that she had observed pretty much everything of her employer’s second confrontation with the intruders. She had seen him float down from the ceiling, had witnessed his turning back of the thieves’ barrage of bullets. She had also taken note of the fact that one of the intruders had not been a thing of flesh and blood.

  “My, my,” he said quietly. “And here I thought I was kidding. But those big green eyes of yours, they really do see a lot, don’t they?”

  “More than they should have?” As the professor’s teapot suddenly erupted, filling the kitchen with its steaming whistle, the curator shut down the gas, telling the girl;

  “Well, it depends on whether or not you actually saw what you think you saw or, in other words, on the way your mind interpreted the information. For instance, you said you saw me flying. But was it really flying, something that when said brings to mind images of Superman streaking through the sky, or was it merely levitating … an ability well documented in Eastern cultures?”

  “Vampires and werewolves are well documented in some cultures, too, but—” Turning with teakettle in one hand, the professor held up his other hand in an interrupting gesture. Smiling at the redhead, he told her;

  “Yes, they are. And there are many in this world who do all they can to cast doubt on such things. Many because they are true skeptics, and others because they are believers.”

  “You mean, Area Fifty-one kind of stuff, or the stories of the Russians and the CIA doing research into telekinesis? Homeland Security … ?”

  “Let’s just say, my dear,” Knight answered softly, “that during World War Two, the Allies kept the Manhattan Project, the development of the atomic bomb, a secret for a reason.” Hoisting his teapot, the professor filled the waiting cup with water, leaving enough roo
m for whatever extras Bridget might desire. She asked for sweetener only, which he provided. After that, he pointed the way back to the living room. Directing the redhead to a seat, Knight stepped over to the corner of the room, which held its only modern conveniences.

  Powering up his CD player, the professor simply set the last disc to which he had been listening to playing once more.

  That his new assistant recognized it as the music of Hildegard von Bingen pleased him to no end.

  Knowing he could put things off no further, comfortably ensconced within his living room, Bridget on the couch, Knight in his favorite overstuffed chair, he said;

  “Well, let’s get down to the facts. As for the abundance of knickknacks within these walls, this building is what you might call the ancestral home of the grand and wonderful Knight clan. Great-great-grandfather moved in before the turn of the century; that’s actually two ‘turns of’ back now, I suppose. It’s been passed down ever since, along with its ever-expanding collection of treasures, or dust-collecting junk, depending on my mood, I suppose. The bulk of the notable pieces did come from Great-great-and Great-grandfather’s time, and Grandfather’s, I suppose, back when people didn’t care that much about Western looting of sacred Eastern places.”

  Bridget sipped her tea, nodding quietly.

  “As for what happened to the intruders, I warned them not to fire upon me, but while I was in effect warning them of what was coming, I will admit that, yes, I was goading them into doing such. When they did attempt to gun me down, their bullets were turned back upon them, as I knew they would be, by a ring I was wearing at the time. It’s several thousand years old, and according to legend has served many masters.”

  “How?”

  “The story of it is that it is capable of turning harm and force back upon those who employ such things. Rasputin was the last owner who could be verified, and he did manage to survive all manner of difficulties.”