by David Wood
“Some of them were big books,” Kaylin said, “with lots of pages. Who knows? Maybe he got a paper cut.”
Bones muttered something Dane was certain was obscene, but Kaylin owed Bones for the tranny comment.
Outside, they hurried across the street and tried to blend in among the tourists in Hyde Park. After five minutes’ walking, they felt safe enough to stop and talk. Dane took out the wallet and looked at the driver’s license. It belonged to a Cyrus Wallace of Manassas, Virginia. The credit cards bore his name as well.
“Why did you take his wallet?” Kaylin frowned and looked at him in confusion.
“One, I wanted to know who he is. Two, having no cash, credit cards, or identification might make it harder for him to come after us.” Spotting a garbage can nearby, he hurried over to it and stuffed the wallet down to the bottom. “Screen me,” he instructed. While Bones and Kaylin moved in close to block him from view, he took out the pistol, removed the clip, and hastily wiped it down.
“You can’t have a handgun, here!” Kaylin gasped. “It’s against the law.”
“Yes, but bad guys don’t always follow the rules,” he said, stuffing the pistol down into the garbage and pocketing the clip. He would ditch it elsewhere.
“I know,” she mumbled, her cheeks pink. “And our next step is?”
“Now,” Dane said, “we pay this descendant of Fawcett a visit.”
Chapter 10
The first thing Cy was aware of was a faint, quavering voice in his ear.
“Just lie still there. Help is on the way.”
He didn’t know the voice. In fact, he wasn’t sure where he was. All he knew was he hurt. A lot. Groaning, he rolled over and spat blood on the ground. Running his tongue across his teeth, he counted two chipped, and one that was broken. Muttering a curse, he climbed to his feet. Damn! Now he remembered.
It was that Maddock guy he’d been warned to look out for. The chick from the R.G.S. had called to let him know that Maddock and his friends were asking about Fawcett. She’d lost sight of them as they headed toward Hyde Park, but once he showed a picture around, people remembered the big Indian, and had pointed him toward the naval library. He groaned as the memories returned. They’d warned Cy not to underestimate Maddock and Bonebrake, but neither had looked like much to Cy, and he’d had the element of surprise on his side, or so he’d thought.
The world swam into view and resolved into an image of a portly man peering down at him. Cy snarled and climbed to his feet. He grabbed the man by the tie and pulled him close.
“Which way did they go?”
“Uh, the fellow who… who kicked your arse? He went back inside the building there.”
Cy shoved him away and barged through the front door, hoping, praying someone would try to stop him. Inside, a frightened old man warned him that the authorities were on the way.
“You listen to me, you old fart.” Cy reached across the counter and took hold of the man’s lapel. “If they get here before I’m gone, you tell them I ran into the park. You do anything else, I use my gun on everyone I see. Got it?”
The man nodded.
“Now, what were those three looking for?”
“I don’t know. They went to the Cundall Library. That way.”
Cy hurried up the stairs. The average police response time in London was seventeen minutes, and a call about a fight that was already over probably wouldn’t be considered urgent. A glance at his watch told him he’d been out for three or four minutes, and had wasted another minute with the fat guy and the old man. If he made this quick, he should be okay.
Inside the Cundall Library, he met a chunky woman with two pairs of reading glasses on top of her gray hair, and another pair perched on the end of her nose. She blinked at him like an owl.
“May I help you?”
“Yeah, you can help. The people who were in here earlier: the guy, the girl, and the big Indian. What were they looking for?”
“Looking for?” She looked around, a dazed expression on her face, and stared at a nearby table as if she had never seen one before. He had a mind to shake an answer out of her, but then she seemed to wake from her trance. “Oh, the Fawcett people.”
“Yes, that would be them. Why did they come here looking for information on Fawcett? This is a naval library.”
“Why, yes, I know that.” She smiled faintly, as if pleased by the thought.
Where did they find this crackpot? Cy tried again. “Do you know if they found anything? Did they write down anything? Make any copies?”
“No copies. No notes.”
“All right, lady, listen to me.” He reached for his gun… it wasn’t there. Where was it? He patted himself all over. It wasn’t in his front pockets, nor his back… Wait a minute! Where was his wallet? Hell! He had lost it in the fight. Who was this Maddock, anyway? Kennedy had probably given him a bio in his email, but Cy had skimmed it. He wasn’t much of a reader.
The old lady was looking at him like he was the one who was nuts. The expression on her face infuriated him.
“All right, you crazy old cow. Listen to me very carefully. I want to know what they learned and I think you can tell me. Now start talking.”
“All I heard was something about an item that Fawcett treasured.” Her voice was serene, as if she was unaware of the danger she was in. Her eyes seemed to be focused on a point somewhere just above Cy’s head and, for an instant, he thought about looking behind him, but he could not act nervous. He needed to intimidate this loony toon if he could.
“What else did you hear?”
“They also mentioned Shackleton,” she said, “and I heard the phrase ‘buried in South Georgia.’ I did not hear anything else.”
“Who is Shackleton, and what part of Georgia?”
“Shackleton is the famed polar explorer, a contemporary of Fawcett. And South Georgia is an island. I believe Shackleton is buried there.”
“Nothing else? They didn’t say what this thing is that Fawcett treasured?”
“No. I do not eavesdrop.” She folded her arms and tapped her toe. “I only happened to overhear a few snatches of conversation as I went about my work.”
“Did they seem… excited? Like they found what they were looking for?” She just stared at him. “Fine.” Cy let go of her and gave her a shove toward the table. “You just sit tight and don’t tell anyone about any of this. You don’t want me to come back, do you?”
“No. You are much too loud for a library.”
A thought occurred to him. “Did they look at any books?”
“Yes. They seemed particularly interested in that one right there.” She pointed to a battered old tome with a gray cover.
Cy picked it up, tucked it inside his jacket, and turned to leave.
“I am sorry, but we do not permit patrons to check books out. I will have to ask you to remain here if you wish to read it.”
Unbelievable. Ignoring the old cow, Cy barreled toward the exit, keeping his eyes open for Maddock and his friends. Of course, if they had his gun, he had to be extra careful. He wondered if Jay had gone after them.
Jay! Cy had forgotten he hadn’t come here alone. His bell must have been rung hard for him to lose track like that. He made his way down the stairs and through a side exit just as a siren wailed in the distance. Good response time, but not good enough.
He still had his phone on him, so he dialed up Jay’s number.
“Yeah?” Jay sounded as groggy as Cy felt. “Where are you?”
“On Kensington. Where are you?”
“I’m in the car. I’ll pick you up.” Jay broke the connection, and Cy kept walking, trying to look interested in the sights. A police cruiser flashed past him, skidding to a halt in front of the institute.
Moments later, a metallic green Ford Fiesta pulled up to the curb. Habit led him to take two steps around the front of the car before Jay waved him back. Cursing any country that would put the driver on the right side of the car, the car on the left s
ide of the road, and him in a Ford Fiesta, he threw open the door and folded his frame into the compact vehicle.
“You forget again?” Jay grinned as he pressed the accelerator.
“Screw you. What happened to Maddock and the other two?”
“Don’t know,” Jay said. “That Indian sucker-punched me. He knocked me clean out. I haven’t been hit like that since I…”
“Yeah, I know. You boxed in the service. You’re a regular Brown Bomber.”
“Is that supposed to be a racist comment?” Jay regarded him out of the corner of his eye.
“No, I just can’t think of any other boxing nicknames at the moment.”
“C’mon, man. There’s Sugar Ray, Iron Mike, Smokin’ Joe, Gentleman Jim. Lots of great nicknames.”
“So, what should I have called you?” Cy had no interest in boxing, but he wasn’t in any hurry to admit what had happened to him.
“The Motor City Cobra.” Jay savored the words, saying them almost like a prayer.
“But you’re not from Detroit.”
“Forget you, man. You don’t know boxing.” Jay glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t seem to be any cops following us. So, what happened to you back there?”
“I gotta call in.” Cy took his phone out again and scrolled down to Kennedy’s name. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and hit the call button.
Much to Cy’s chagrin, Kennedy answered on the first ring. “Cy, what’s the status?”
“I think I’ve got something.” He filled Kennedy in on the enticing clues regarding Fawcett, Shackleton, and South Georgia, as well as his having procured a book that was of interest to Maddock. He was careful to make it sound like he and Jay had arrived after Maddock and party had departed, and had gleaned these kernels of information through solid detective work. He omitted the part where the two of them got their asses kicked, and Cy got his gun and wallet lifted.
Kennedy was silent for a long time—longer than Cy could stand it.
“It’s good, isn’t it Kennedy? I mean, we are after Fawcett, and if...”
“We’ll follow up on it,” Kennedy said in a clipped voice. “Anything else?”
“I’ve already shipped Fawcett’s copy of The Lost World to you like you asked. Fastest available post.”
“Fine. Send the book you found today along to us, and then lie low until you hear from me.”
The call ended. Kennedy wasn’t much of a people person.
“Thanks for not telling him about… you know.” Jay stared straight ahead, his expression blank.
“No problem.” Now it was Cy’s turn to feel like an idiot. “Say, I’m going to need you to spot me some cash for a few days.”
“What? How come?”
“Maddock sort of stole my wallet.” Cy would have given anything to be somewhere else at that moment, as Jay threw back his head and laughed. “And when I see him again,” Cy muttered, “I’ll kill him.”
Chapter 11
Dane parked the car in front of a modest, two-story, detached brick house in Blackheath, a suburb southeast of London. Despite the pleasant surroundings, he couldn’t help looking up and down the street, searching for potential danger, wondering if the guys who attacked them at the naval library would track them down again. He’d given the name and address of the man with whom he’d fought to his friend Jimmy, in hopes he could shed some light on exactly who these people were of whom they’d run afoul.
A tiny man with a shock of unkempt white hair answered the door. He eyed them through thick glasses that gave him the appearance of a snowy owl.
“Mister Maddock and party, I presume?” If his body was small, his voice was huge. He could have done voice-overs for NFL films.
“Yes. Thank you for seeing us, Mister Wainwright.” They shook hands, and Dane introduced Bones and Kaylin.
“Bloody hell,” Wainwright said, craning his neck to look up at Bones, “are all American Natives your size?”
“They wish. My mother just fed me good.”
“Fifteen stone, I’ll wager.” Wainwright cupped his chin, looking Bones up and down with a critical eye.
“Dude, I haven’t been stoned since I was a teenager.”
Wainwright did a double-take, laughed and ushered them into a living room overflowing with books. Every wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, with volumes stacked two deep and tucked into every open space: aging hardcovers, old pulp novels, and textbooks of varying age and subject. Four overstuffed chairs circled a round table, also stacked with books. Books were even piled haphazardly in the corners, and a basket stuffed full of newspapers, magazines, and mystery novels sat next to one of the chairs. He urged them to make themselves comfortable, and returned a few minutes later with hot tea, sandwiches cut in small triangles, apple slices, and sugar cookies.
“Hold this, young man.” He handed Dane the tray, then bent down and cleared the coffee table of books with one sweep of his arm. “Ordinarily I would not treat books so,” he said, placing the tray on the table and pouring a cup of tea for each of them, “but they are romance novels my late wife’s sister thought I would enjoy reading. Perish the thought! If I want pornography, I shall search for it on the internet.”
Bones choked on his tea, and Kaylin’s eyes were suddenly wide as saucers at the comment. Dane merely grinned and nodded.
“You have quite an impressive library,” Dane said, looking around the room.
“Thank you. I fear this is, as they say, only the tip of the iceberg. All of my rooms, save the kitchen and bath, are in a similar state. I have always had a fascination, and perhaps an obsession, with books.”
“You know, I’ll bet you could put all of these on one e-reader.” Bones cocked his head, as if performing the calculations in his head. Kaylin frowned and nudged Bones’s leg with her toe, but Wainwright laughed.
“I have one of those as well. Most of my books, however, are too old and obscure to be available electronically. If you would like to scan them for me, I’m certain it would not take you more than a few decades.”
“You don’t want Bones touching your electronics.” Dane took a bite of a sandwich and forced down a grimace. It tasted like cream cheese and cucumber, or something like that.
“I scanned my butt once and emailed it to Playgirl. They didn’t write back, though.” Bones stuffed two of the small sandwiches into his mouth at once.
“I’m sorry, Mister Wainwright.” Kaylin laid a hand on the man’s arm. “We are not as crazy as we must seem. Well, Dane and I aren’t.”
“Nonsense. It is a delight to have young people in the house. I was a university professor for many years, and I miss the absurd humor of youth.”
Dane couldn’t remember the last time he’d been categorized as young, much less youthful, but he’d take it. “The reason we are here is actually in regard to a book. One that belonged to Percy Fawcett.”
Wainwright gave him a shrewd look. “What book might that be?”
“A copy of The Lost World. A personal copy in which he took notes. It was supposedly one of his most treasured personal possessions.”
“I see.” The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Wainwright sat up straighter, his posture stiff. “May I ask why you are interested in this book?”
Dane sensed he would have to tread carefully. His instinct also told him that anything short of the truth would not suffice. Wainwright impressed him as a sensible, perceptive man.
“We are searching for a friend who disappeared in the Amazon. From what we have learned so far, we believe he was on the trail of Fawcett’s final expedition, and we think he found information in this book that guided him on his search.”
“He has been missing for some time now.” Kaylin sat her cup on the table and folded her hands together in a supplicating gesture. “He is not some crackpot—he is a college professor, like you were. We need to find him.”
“What is his name?” Wainwright still eyed them with suspicion.
“Thomas Thornton.” Kaylin took a photograph from her purse and handed it to Wainwright, who looked at it for a long moment, and then seemed to sag.
“I warned the lad. He was here, I don’t recall for certain, perhaps a year ago, if that. I let him look at the book, and told him what I know, and what I suspect about my granduncle’s final expedition. I’m sorry. I tried to dissuade him. Truly I did.”
“Thomas was here!” Kaylin’s face and voice were filled with hope. “Did he show you this picture, or a picture like it?” She handed him the image of the Fawcett painting.
“Ah! The portrait that hangs in the Institute. No, he did not show this to me, though I am familiar with it. It is, in fact, the final portrait Fawcett commissioned of himself.”
“Thomas left this for us as a clue to his whereabouts,” Dane said.
“Did he? Well, it certainly ties several things together. Fawcett, The Lost World, the island, Quest, and, of course, the amphorae.” Three seconds’ tantalizing silence followed the statement. Dane’s heart raced, and he found himself inching forward in his seat, as if the old man’s words would reach him sooner. Finally, Wainwright shook his head and continued.
“I fear Fawcett was losing his mind prior to his final expedition. The story has been passed down through the generations of my family. It is said that he paced the floor, muttering to himself about something he lost on the shipwreck. He spent long hours poring over his copy of The Lost World, works of ancient history, and the Bible.”
“The Bible?” Dane was puzzled. “What was the connection there?”
“No one knows. At any rate, something happened on his next-to-last expedition into the Amazon that made Fawcett more certain than ever that the lost city of Z was real, and that its inhabitants were descended from the ancient Greeks. Hence the portrait he had commissioned and donated to the Institute just before his departure. He knew he could not make public what he believed about Z. He was already a subject of some skepticism because of his beliefs. To share the conclusion he had come to would have held him up to public ridicule.”