“That’s an interesting observation,” Shawn said. “That the man who claims some museum employee was murdered in Santa Barbara by a centuries-old cabal dedicated to finding King Arthur’s sword and taking over England is actually insane. How would you ever come to such a conclusion?”
Frantically Gus thought back over everything Kitteredge had said to them-and that he’d believed. Piece by piece, everything hung together. There was not a single flaw anywhere in the internal logic of the conspiracy theory.
But it was ridiculous. And Gus had been so interested about seeing where every new piece would lead that he never stopped to consider the thought that he shouldn’t be letting Kitteredge lead in the first place.
“If everything Kitteredge has been saying is based on a fantasy, then we can’t trust any of the assumptions we’ve been working under,” Gus said.
“That’s a good point,” Shawn said.
“And if he really is crazy, then…” Gus trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence.
“Then it’s possible that he’s the one who killed Clay Filkins,” Shawn said. “And we’ve helped a murderer flee the country.”
Gus let that horrifying thought bounce around his brain. There had to be a way out of this disaster. There had to be. He just couldn’t begin to think of one. “What are we going to do?”
“Plead guilty,” Shawn said.
Chapter Thirty-seven
If Shawn and Gus had ever been in a situation that called for a complicated plan to get out of, this was it. They were ten thousand miles away from home with no passports, with no return ticket, and suspected of helping an accused murderer escape justice. To make matters worse, those suspicions were almost certainly correct.
Unfortunately, there was no time to formulate a complicated plan. During the few moments before Kitteredge emerged from the lavatory and the plane began its final descent, they might have been able to rough out the basics of a simpler one. But Gus’ mind couldn’t focus on planning because something else had driven everything else out.
“You’ve believed all this time that Kitteredge was crazy,” Gus said, checking to make sure the professor hadn’t stepped back into the main cabin.
“You didn’t?” Shawn said.
“You know I didn’t,” Gus said.
“Well, here’s a handy hint, then,” Shawn said. “When someone comes up to you in the supermarket and says that all those jars of Best Foods are actually alien eggs, and one day they are all going to hatch into ferocious monsters that will explode out of refrigerators across the West Coast-the East is safe because labeling them Hellman’s destroys them-and kill everyone, and he’s the only one who knows, you want to err on the side of assuming he’s not operating at one hundred percent.”
“Professor Kitteredge never said anything about mayonnaise,” Gus hissed angrily.
“It’s not the condiment that matters,” Shawn said. “Unless you’re making a turkey sandwich, and then you really want the sweetness you only get in Miracle Whip. The point is, whenever you hear that magic phrase ‘and I’m the only one who knows,’ it’s time to head for the hills.”
“But you let us follow him,” Gus said.
“I let you follow him,” Shawn corrected.
“You’re in the same private jet I am.”
“True,” Shawn said. “And wearing the same clothes as you, too. But this was your case, so I thought we should do things your way.”
Gus glared at him, the truth only now hitting home. “You’re saying this is all my fault?”
“I hadn’t actually thought it was necessary for me to use those exact words, but if you’d like me to, all right,” Shawn said. “This is all your fault.”
“I didn’t hear you presenting an alternative plan,” Gus said.
“I had an excellent alternative, which would have wrapped up our role in this case ages ago.”
“And you didn’t think it might be a good idea to mention it to me?” Gus said.
“I begged, I pleaded, I urged,” Shawn said. “But no matter what I said, you refused to call off your doomed trip to the museum and come with me to the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival.”
Gus was momentarily struck speechless. Even when he regained the use of his tongue, he found it impossible to do anything but restate the obvious. “You allowed all this to happen just because you didn’t get your way.”
“Sometimes words aren’t enough,” Shawn said. “You need to give a concrete example so the lesson is learned. Next time, you’ll listen to me.”
“What next time?” Gus said. “We’ll be lucky not to spend the rest of our lives in jail.”
“But if we don’t, when I tell you that the Ralph Macchio Film Festival starts next month, you’ll be first in line for tickets.”
Before Gus could respond, the lavatory door opened and Kitteredge shambled his way back to his seat. “I want to thank you gentlemen for accompanying me on this adventure,” he said as he buckled himself in. “I know we’re not arriving in ideal circumstances, but soon we will be heroes to the world. We do have some work to do first.”
“Yeah, fifty years of it,” Gus said glumly. “Breaking rocks.”
The meaning of Gus’ words seemed to fly right over Kitteredge’s head as he leaned over to pick up a small notebook that had slipped out of his pocket. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. “It’s just one more puzzle, and then we’ll have our answer. We simply need to understand the meaning of this phrase: ‘Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight.’ Any thoughts?”
Gus had one, but it wasn’t going to be much use. He turned away, hoping to hide his rapidly approaching panic attack, and saw that the ground was rising even more quickly. But it wasn’t like any airport approach he’d ever seen. The countryside below was a patchwork of varying shades of green, each one bordered by darker green hedgerows. He couldn’t help but compare it to the gigantic corn and wheat fields he’d flown over when he traveled across the United States and think that it looked magically antique, as if their flight had gone off course and they were landing in the outskirts of Fairyland.
But if they had been landing in an enchanted place, there would have been some mystical way to put the plane on the ground. Right now, Gus would have been thrilled to see the few clouds in the bright blue sky form into a giant hand that would snatch the jet out of the air and set it down.
Because there didn’t seem to be any place for their plane to land. There wasn’t a field that stretched longer than a few dozen feet before it was broken by a hedgerow, and the roads barely seemed wide enough for a compact car, let alone the jet’s wingspan. Gus tried to comfort himself with the thought that it looked like this only because they were so far up in the air, but if that was the case, then the sheep grazing below had to be forty feet tall.
And then he saw it-just what Shawn had predicted. A long, unbroken stretch of field bisected by a straight road that led to an oversize barn.
“We’ll be landing in just a minute.” Malko’s voice came over the intercom. “Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened. This may get bumpy.”
Gus braced himself for a hard landing, but Malko was apparently a much better pilot than he gave himself credit for. The wheels touched down with a whisper, and the jet braked easily as it traveled down the asphalt road. It purred down the tarmac and then through the wide doors into the barn.
Kitteredge had his seat belt off and was standing by the door as soon as the engines shut down. Gus was rising to follow him when Shawn grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his seat.
“Do you have a plan yet?” Shawn said.
“I’m working on it,” Gus said, which was technically true as long as panicking over not having a single idea could be considered a kind of work.
“Keep working,” Shawn said. “That way, if you come up with one, you can compare it to the one of mine we
will already have used.”
It took Gus a moment to work through the logic behind the grammar. “You have a plan? What is it?”
“Watch and learn,” Shawn said, then reclined his chair and closed his eyes.
Gus didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to learn. What he wanted was to wake up in his seat in the Bijoux Theatre to discover that he’d fallen asleep in the middle of Dangerous Indiscretion and there were only three more features to go before the festival was over. But since that didn’t seem likely, he waited in his seat, wondering what it was he was waiting for and if there was any chance it wouldn’t make everything even worse than it already was.
He didn’t have to wait long. After a moment, the cockpit door swung open, and Malko went over to Kitteredge.
“I hope you enjoyed the flight, Professor,” Malko said.
“Your flying is even more graceful than your minuet,” Kitteredge said, and Gus was surprised to see a tinge of red coloring the hunchback’s cheeks.
Malko reached past Kitteredge and hit a few buttons on a console. There was a thunk as machinery whirred into gear. The cabin door swung open, and a flight of stairs extended into the darkness of the barn’s interior. Kitteredge squeezed Malko’s outstretched hand and then disappeared down the steps.
Malko waited by the open door until it became obvious that Shawn and Gus were not going anywhere. Then he turned and walked heavily back to their seats.
“End of the line,” he said. “Everybody out.”
“That’s true in so many ways,” Shawn said, cracking one eye open but refusing to raise his seat back. “Just not in the one you’re thinking of.”
Malko lifted his lip in a sneer, and Gus thought he was actually going to growl like a dog. Instead, he spoke clearly and forcefully. “Both of you, out of the plane now.”
“Listen, Malk,” Shawn said. “Mind if I call you Malk? Mal? Ma?”
“Out.” This time it was less a word than a bark.
“I understand that you’re fond of the professor,” Shawn said as if he hadn’t noticed the hostility coming from the other man or remembered how handy he was with a shotgun. “But there’s something you’ve got to understand. He’s nuts. Absolutely stark raving insane. I’m pretty sure your master doesn’t realize this, or he never would have sent us all off like this, but-”
“My what?” Malko said. To Gus’ ears it sounded less like a question than a death threat.
“That’s the guy,” Shawn said. “Your master. You know, the one who orders you around and shoves torches in your face when you don’t obey.”
“Flaxman Low is my employer,” Malko said quietly, but with an undercurrent of bloodlust in his throat. “I was hired through a top-flight recruiting agency and work under union contract.”
“And I’m sure he’s a great boss,” Gus said quickly, before Shawn could ask if Malko had answered a want ad specifically asking for someone to dig up dead bodies for parts. “He’s also a great friend to Professor Kitteredge. I’m sure he doesn’t want to see any harm come to him. And that’s what this is all about.”
Gus glanced at Shawn, hoping that this was indeed what it was all about. He was beginning to have a glimmer of Shawn’s plan, and while it was pretty flimsy, it wouldn’t get any stronger if Gus cut its legs off.
“Exactly,” Shawn said. “We’ve all been wrong about the prof. He’s seriously sick, and he needs help. We need to take him back to Santa Barbara and get him into a hospital for observation. Once the doctors rule that he is mentally ill, his lawyers can get him a deal. But we need to get him back home first.”
Gus watched Malko’s face carefully as he listened to Shawn. At first it looked like the hunchback was simply going to order them off the plane again. But as Shawn went on, Malko’s features began to soften.
“I have to say I was worried about the same thing,” Malko said. “Mr. Low gives him the benefit of the doubt when he talks about this Cabal, but I studied psychology in college, and I recognize the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. It pains me to see him this way.”
“Then you’ll help us?” Gus said. He couldn’t believe it was going to be this easy.
“I’ve got to refuel the jet, and that’s going to take a little while,” Malko said. “That gives you two some time to come up with a story that will get him to agree to return. If you can do that, I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thank you,” Gus said.
“I’m doing it for Professor Kitteredge,” Malko said, and turned to walk to the door.
Gus undid his seat belt and waited for Shawn to do the same. “That was your great plan?” he said. “To ask for help?”
“It’s not the complexity of the plan, but how well it works,” Shawn said. “Besides, I like to keep the tactic of sincerely telling the truth in my toolkit. It isn’t the right thing very often, but once in a while it comes in handy.”
Gus led Shawn to the jet’s door and then down the short flight of stairs into the darkened barn. He peered into the gloom but couldn’t see Kitteredge anywhere.
“Professor?” he called.
There was no answer.
“Professor Kitteredge?” he said again as Shawn stepped down next to him. “Langston?”
“I’m afraid Professor Kitteredge can’t talk right now,” a man’s voice said from somewhere in the darkness.
“Did that sound like Malko to you?” Shawn said. “Because I don’t remember him speaking with an English accent.”
“Who’s out there?” Gus called. “Where’s Professor Kitteredge?”
“Who I am is of no importance right now,” the voice said, sounding much closer to James Mason than to Malko. “As for the professor’s whereabouts, you can see for yourself.”
A row of fluorescent lights across the barn’s ceiling flickered on. Gus blinked against the sudden illumination, then opened his eyes. They were standing in what appeared to be a traditional wooden barn, aside from the substitution of the private jet for a stack of hay bales. One wall was covered with farm tools hanging from hooks, and the other was hidden behind a series of stalls.
It was the nearest of those stalls that caught Gus’ eye. Because Professor Kitteredge was standing in its doorway. And behind him was a man in a pinstriped, three-piece suit. A man whose face was completely covered by a black ski mask.
And he was holding a gun to the professor’s head.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Lassiter was shocked at how easy it had been to get in to see Hugh Ralston, the museum’s executive director. He and Henry had spent twenty minutes talking about what to do if they were asked to produce a badge, and the closest they got to an answer was a mutual agreement to improvise.
But Ralston’s secretary didn’t ask for any identification. She took one look at the men standing across from her desk and hit the intercom to let her boss know that there were two police detectives to see him.
If only the next part of the interview had gone as well. Not that Ralston wasn’t cooperative. He seemed almost desperately eager to please.
It was just that he didn’t know anything. They’d started out by asking standard questions about Clay Filkins-friends, enemies, home life, financial troubles. All the things that Juliet O’Hara had undoubtedly already asked in the course of the official investigation. Ralston didn’t have any objections to answering them again; he just didn’t have any information to give the police. They’d worked together for a couple of years, and Ralston had held Filkins in the highest regard professionally, but they’d never spent any time together outside of work, and all their conversations in the office had been strictly business. Not that they objected to speaking personally; it was just that there was so much about the museum they both found fascinating that there was never a need to change subjects.
“What about the deal with the painting?” Henry asked. “That sure sounds funny to me.”
“It sounded funny to everyone here,” Ralston admitted. “But some things are too good to question too clo
sely. Clay insisted it was legitimate, and his word was sacred around here. So we took the deal, even with the strict rules about anonymity.”
“I’m sure you can see how those rules can’t stand anymore,” Lassiter said. “Your donor’s instructions matter much less than a human life.”
“I agree entirely,” Ralston said. “I’d break the confidentiality in a second if I could.”
“If you could?” Henry said, his face reddening. “My son is being hunted by the police because he’s trying to clear Langston Kitteredge’s name. If you have information that can help him, I won’t leave you alone for a second until you hand it over.”
Ralston threw up his hands defensively. “I’m sorry; I said that badly,” he said. “I mean I would give you any information I had. I just don’t have any. I went into Clay’s office, I broke into his private files, and I dug out everything he had on this picture. This is it.”
Ralston picked up a file and handed it across his desk. Henry flipped it open. It was empty. “Somebody stole his files?”
“Or he never kept any paperwork at all,” Ralston said. “Or he hid it at his home. I have no answers. I have nothing.”
“Come on,” Henry said. “There must be some other way of tracking down this donor.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Ralston said, his voice close to cracking. “I have nothing. All I’ve ever wanted was for this museum to thrive. Because it’s so much bigger than I am. I couldn’t even make my ex-wife happy, but this institution can touch the lives of generations. And look what I’ve done for it. Thanks to my brilliant financial skills, we’ve lost two-thirds of our endowment in the markets. Now one of the best people who ever worked here has been murdered in one of our galleries, and the painting he spent his last months acquiring for us has been stolen. Could I have done a worse job?”
If there was one thing that Henry-and every cop Henry had ever known-hated, it was whining. When you saw as many terrible things as a rookie saw in his first year, it was just too hard to listen to anyone moaning about how tough he had it. Henry would never tolerate it from Shawn, and he hated when he heard it in an interview. He glanced over at Lassiter to confirm that the detective shared his disgust. But to his shock, Lassiter seemed to be listening sympathetically. And there was something bright and shiny in the corner of his eye, which-if Henry hadn’t known better-he would have sworn was a tear.
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