by Shawn Oetzel
The butler, Mr. Dawson, had brought their coats and the four of them stood quietly in the chateau’s foyer, lost in their own respective thoughts, as they awaited the arrival of Mr. Grant. Reggie read a myriad of emotions in their expressions, including excitement, disbelief, and subtle hints of fear. He couldn’t be the only one wondering what had become of the Ghost.
This case was finally coming to a head, and if all went as he hoped, he and Sommers would be back in Washington before the day was out. Then he could start to untangle the mess he was undoubtedly in for letting his personal friendship lead him into interfering in an active case.
An ominous wave of foreboding crashed over Reggie as his cellphone began to vibrate. He hesitated before answering, but the device would not be denied.
It was a number he did not recognize. He turned his back and took several steps away from the others so they would not be able to listen in on his conversation.
Once he knew he was out of earshot, he said, “Agent Blackburn.” “Reggie, my old friend, it’s been a while,” the Ghost said.
He actually cringed when he heard the words and the all-too-familiar voice. His worst fears were about to be fully realized.
The only response he seemed to be able to come up with was a shake of his head in stunned disbelief which of course was a futile gesture. He’d known this moment would eventually come. As soon as he learned the Ghost was also searching for Excalibur he knew their paths would inevitably cross.
“What do you want, Granderson?” was all he could manage, anger causing him to clench his jaw tightly.
“Easy, big fella,” the Ghost mocked. “You’re going to give yourself a stroke. I’m sure your blood pressure is already a touch on the high side. Besides, you already know what I want.”
He heard the tone in the Ghost’s voice take on a razor’s edge. “You can’t have it, and no matter what you try, I’ll stop you.”
“Really, Reggie, there is no need for this to escalate to open hostility. I would hate for people to get hurt because you do not want to play nice and share.”
The way the Ghost emphasized the word “people” put him on alert. It had clearly been a warning, and he spared another look at Sommers, knowing exactly what “people” the killer was alluding to.
“Don’t even think about --”
“Don’t pretend to think you can give me orders, Blackburn. Those days are long behind us, and now I’m the one in charge.”
He heard madness in the Ghost’s voice, and knew there would be no reasoning with the man. He would have to choose his own words carefully or he might accidentally set the lunatic off on a violence spree.
“You know I can’t give you the sword, Granderson.”
“Poor Blackburn, always playing the hero. Except, this time, your lack of compliance could lead to someone else becoming the dead martyr. Look, I’ll make it easy for you. Just tell me where the sword is and I will get it myself. Once I have it, I’m gone, and you will no longer have to worry your fat face about me. But mark my words and mark them well, Reggie. If you deceive me in any way, your lady friend will die in an excruciatingly slow and messy way, but not before I’ve had my fun. You know I always make good on my threats.”
There it was, out in the open. If he did not give the Ghost Excalibur’s location, Sommers’ life was forfeit. The Ghost would indeed make good on his threat. Whatever power the guy had at his disposal, Reggie knew he was no match for. He could only protect Sommers to a certain degree. If the Ghost wanted to get to her, he eventually would, and there was nothing Reggie or anyone else, in the Agency or otherwise, could do about it.
“By your pause I’m going to surmise that you are considering my proposal and your options, Reggie old buddy. Let me simplify your options. You don’t have any. Give me the location or the woman dies in a lot of pain.”
Reggie knew the Ghost was right. His only real option was to give Granderson the sword’s location and hope he could get there before his adversary did and put a stop to this madness once and for all. It was a long shot and in all honesty a horrible plan, but it might be enough to save Sommers.
“All right, Granderson you win.”
“Truly, Reggie, was there ever any doubt I wouldn’t?”
“It’s somewhere in Fenway Park. Don’t ask where because I don’t know. I’m on the verge of being taken there myself.”
“I see. This could prove rather interesting them, couldn’t it?”
“There, now you know the sword’s location, but also know this,” Reggie said, his own voice taking on a steely edge. “I’m going to do everything in my power to stop you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Reggie old friend. I’m actually looking forward to it.”
He was ready to fling one last insult at the Ghost, but the line went dead. Trembling with rage, it took him several attempts to replace his phone back into its clip.
Mr. Grant and their ride had arrived. Reggie walked back to the others, still with no idea how to proceed.
“You okay, Reggie?” Sommers asked. “You look a little shaken.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just anxious to get this case over with,” he said, which was more true than anyone knew.
“You and me both,” Sommers said.
He was the last one out the front door. The sunshine did nothing to brighten his mood. All he could think was that, no matter what happened next, the Ghost must be stopped.
By any and all means necessary.
—Chapter 25
The atmosphere inside of the limousine was mostly positive as the lights of the stadium appeared in the distance. There was a sense of hopeful optimism. Except for Reggie, Sommers noted.
She had been watching him closely ever since he received that phone call, and he had become more sullen and withdrawn with every passing mile. She considered broaching the subject, but paused.
If there was something going on she needed to know about, she was sure Reggie would tell her. Until he decided to open up, she would give him some space. The vibe he gave off was creeping her out, though. It almost reeked of fear.
“We’re coming up on Fenway,” Mr. Grant said.
He was in the back with the rest of them, having changed out of the well-tailored suit he’d worn when she first met him into more casual attire: khaki slacks, a lightweight white shirt, and a black mid-thigh length leather jacket. She still wasn’t sure how much they could really trust the guy. So far, Grant had not given up any information either through his words or behavior. He was as much an enigma as the rest of this case. He was friendly enough, but only to a degree, managing to keep a professional distance which made him seem aloof.
Who would have thought this case would end at a baseball stadium? Nothing about this search for Excalibur had been simple, so why would actually getting the sword be any different?
“What made you and your associates choose Fenway Park?” Professor Foshay asked. “It seems like such an odd choice.”
“The Nicholas family is part owners of the Red Sox franchise, which gives Thomas Nicholas access to the stadium,” Grant said. “The restoration project of the King’s Chapel meant we had to move quickly. Fenway Park provided us with an easy solution. Besides, it has been a boon for baseball fans in this town.”
“What does that mean?” Reggie asked, the first words he’d spoken since their brief conversation back at the chateau.
“It could be mere coincidence, but Excalibur was moved to Fenway in January of 2004,” Grant said.
“I don’t understand,” Professor Foshay said.
“The Red Sox won the World Series in 2004. Their first since 1918,” Reggie said.
“Wait a minute, they won this year too,” she said, catching on.
“Correct, Agent Sommers,” Grant said. “They have also been in the playoffs every year since the sword was moved.”
“And you think Excalibur being at Fenway is responsible for the Red Sox’s resurgence?” Professor Foshay asked.
It was Ambrosius who answered. “It has long been rumored that anyone who carries Excalibur into battle is unbeatable, so it is not much of a stretch to believe its power could affect this sport team just by its proximity to their field of battle, so to speak.”
“Great,” she said with a sarcastic chuckle. “If the Red Sox Nation gets wind of what we’re up to, we’ll have the whole city after us.”
“Yeah, just think of the trouble we would have if the Cubs fans in Chicago knew about this,” Reggie said, and they all laughed.
Despite the much-needed round of laughter, Sommers found that her cop intuition was up and running, warning her deep down in her gut that things might get rough before all was said and done.
As the oldest stadium in professional baseball, Fenway Park did not offer all of the modern amenities of many much newer parks built in the last few years. One of those perks Fenway lacked was easy and accessible parking. The Red Sox fans must have faced a traffic nightmare after each game. The logistics of 30-40 thousand people trying to cram their automobiles onto the already overcrowded Boston streets was something she did not even want to think about.
Their driver avoided the insufficient parking situation by taking them around to a gate at the rear. It opened onto a small lot capable of holding maybe forty cars. Sommers realized it was the players’ entrance, deserted now with baseball season over, but she could well imagine the crowd of autograph seekers who must swarm to this lot like moths to an open flame.
The limo took an open spot closest to an entrance which lead into the stadium. She felt the luxury vehicle idle as it was put into park, and then was a little surprised when the engine stopped completely. Apparently the driver was not going to wait with the car like in the movies, but must be planning to attend their little part as well.
“What about security?” Ambrosius asked as the limo stopped.
Sommers turned to look at the Knight, awaiting his answer.
“Security will not be a problem,” Grant said, his smug tone expressing total confidence. “One of the perks , if you will, of being part owner of the franchise is that Mr. Nicholas has sole rights to contract his company out to provide private security for the stadium.”
“So, this means…,” she said, trailing off, hoping Grant would get the hint and fill in the blank.
“This means,” he said, “all security officers within Fenway Park were handpicked by Mr. Nicholas himself. They are all loyal to our cause.”
They exited the limousine one at a time, with Mr. Grant being the last. He had a quick word with the driver, who looked like a Secret Service clone, before taking the lead and walking towards the stadium’s entrance. They went single-file, with Amy, Ambrosius, the Professor, and Reggie following Grant. The driver moved into a rear guard position and followed as well.
They moved into a narrow, dimly lit tunnel, illuminated by a single light bulb hanging uncovered several feet above their heads. The tunnel was worn, and had obviously seen its fair share of decades. Amy had to take a second to catch her breath as she realized they were walking down the same passage that baseball icons like Babe Ruth and Ted Williams had used.
The slamming door echoed, loud enough to startle her. The already dark passage became encased in shadows. Grant opened another door ahead of them. Light poured through from a brightly-lit room. Sommers looked over her shoulder, past Professor Foshay, at Reggie. He was definitely on edge and worried. His odd and nervous behavior had her concerned. It was not like him to be so skittish. She saw his eyes darting around, searching every crack, crevice, and corner where a shadow had come to roost.
They emerged into the much heralded Red Sox clubhouse. At this moment, Sommers knew, she was the envy of every baseball fan in Boston. She was a moderate sports fan at best, but even she could not help but feel the thrill of excitement as she looked around.
The lockers stood like sentinels, though were now all empty; the players having packed their belongings at the end of another successful season before scattering to their winter homes awaiting spring. The carpet was the same color green as the lockers and crunched under their feet as they moved through the room. A large Red Sox logo was woven into it at the exact center of the room.
Though Fenway Park itself was quite old, the clubhouse had been modernized. There were several large screen plasma televisions, along with plush furniture that seemed to be calling out to her to come sit and relax. It was a good thing Grant kept them moving because if there had been any type of pause, her self-control would have broken down and she would have launched herself onto the nearest sofa.
Grant never slowed, however, as he led them into an adjoining training room full of work-out equipment. The free weights and machines were state-of-the-art and would be the envy of any public gym in the city. They proceeded into what was obviously the equipment storage facility. It looked like a mini warehouse, with every piece of baseball equipment imaginable and some she would have never imagined, packed on shelves and racks. The rows of bats, gloves, and uniforms made her feel as if she had somehow stepped right into an obsessed Little Leaguer’s dream.
Grant turned. “We are going to a sub-basement. It will be darker and the steps are old and narrow, so everyone please watch your step.”
He strode over to the far right corner and waved them forward. In the tile floor were a metal ring and concrete circle around a lock, and a black line that made up the seam of a trapdoor. Grant pulled a silver chain from under his shirt from. Attached to the chain was a small key. It reminded Amy of the key she had used on her locker back when she was with the LAPD. Grant knelt, inserted the key into the hole in the center of the pull ring, and gave it a twist. She heard the sound of the lock’s tumblers clicking into place.
She tossed a questioning look Grant’s way as he grabbed the ring with one hand and easily pulled the trapdoor open.
“We made a few updates and modifications when we first brought Excalibur here,” Grant said by way of explanation.
“Well then, let’s get this party started,” she said.
“By all means.” He stepped onto the stairway leading down.
She watched as Grant disappeared into the darkness, hearing the creaking and groaning of the aged steps as they accepted his weight. After sharing a look with her companions and receiving a nod of approval from Ambrosius, she began her descent.
The steps led down about six feet. Using what light seeped down from the equipment room above, she was able to maneuver down the ancient staircase without incident. As soon as she touched down on the hard concrete of the sub-basement’s floor, she could hear the protest of the stairs as whoever was next in line began their descent.
When they were all at the bottom of the steps, Grant produced a small hand held flashlight and led them down a narrow hall.
“It’s just up ahead,” he said.
Behind them, the stairs creaked again, probably the old staircase resettling after having been unused for so long. Sommers focused on the small circle of light from Grant’s flashlight, which had come to rest on a steel door with an electronic keypad.
The metal of the door gleamed. It looked so out of place in the decrepit sub-basement she had to wonder why no one had noticed it before. Then she remembered that Fenway’s security force was in the employ of Mr. Nicholas and his Knights.
She held her breath in anticipation as Grant punched in the code on the number lock. There was a slight pause where nothing happened, and she experienced a flash of paranoid fear that this whole journey was for nothing, but in the next second the red sensor light on the keypad flashed green and the lock released with an audible click.
Grant grabbed the lever on the door and pushed it down, allowing the heavy steel door to swing inward. He stepped across the threshold and was quickly gobbled up by the absolute darkness of the chamber’s interior. She wanted to follow, but hesitated. It was not until a light switched on from within that she let out the breath she had been holding.
One by one, th
ey moved into what looked like a bank vault. The light was provided by two sets of fluorescent bulbs set into the ceiling. The cinderblock walls and concrete floor were painted a battleship gray, giving the room a bunker feel to it. In the center of the room was a wooden table. On the table was a large metal container about six feet long.
The air in the room was stale and humid, and only grew worse with everyone’s increasingly rapid breathing. She looked around at her three companions, hoping to see their anticipation and excitement matched her own. Ambrosius was sweating profusely like he was sick with a fever, Professor Foshay looked almost giddy with a silly grin spread across his face, and Reggie kept staring over his shoulder nervously.
“I hope you understand the level of responsibility you are about to take on by accepting Excalibur, Agent Sommers,” Grant said.
“Trust me, Mr. Grant,” she said. “I have seen up close and personal what people are willing to do to get their hands on this sword. I don’t enter into this lightly, but it is the task I have been given. It’s my duty to see Excalibur gets to the Agency safely, and I mean to do just that.”
Grant appeared reassured by her comments and with a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement moved over to the box. The container had a key and combination lock set into it. When Grant finished manipulating the locks on the box, he went around the opposite side of the table so he stood behind the container, facing them. She could feel the tension mount as Grant paused, making her think it was for dramatic effect. Then, with a quick flourish of movement, lifted open the lid.
She caught a brief twinkle as if something gleamed in the light, but other than that was unable to see the contents. No one spoke or even breathed as Grant reached into the box, grabbed hold of something, and pulled forth the sword Excalibur.
She was not sure what she expected, but the heavens did not open up, angels did not sing, and lightning did not flash from the sky. Instead, Grant stood there bathed in artificial light, holding a fairly ordinary looking blade.