3 of a Kind

by Rohan Gavin

Uncle Bill didn’t answer. Darkus peered round the Scotsman’s massive torso to find he’d fallen asleep at the reins, his cowboy hat tipped forward to shade him from the light.

  Darkus glanced at the position of the sun. ‘I estimate we’re over halfway.’

  Tilly turned to Dougal’s stallion trotting beside them, then examined Knightley Senior’s body still draped unconscious over its hindquarters, occasionally being swished in the face by the horse’s tail. ‘He’ll wish he never woke up once I’m done with him,’ she menaced. ‘I’ve been brushing up on my “enhanced interrogation” techniques.’

  Darkus realised it was easier to talk to her without looking her in the eye. ‘We need to stay focused on the case, for all our sakes,’ he advised.

  ‘You stay focused on your case,’ she warned. ‘I’ll stay focused on mine.’

  ‘Tilly …’ He tried to word his next sentence carefully, realising his stepsister needed something more from him and his dad – more than finding Bogna; more than the dangerous thrill of playing a game with the Combination. She needed answers. Darkus took a deep breath, then confessed: ‘Dad said something when we were in LA. I was half asleep at the time, but I heard him say … that there was something I needed to know.’

  Darkus felt Tilly’s body flinch behind him on the horse. Her fingers tensed up, almost digging into his waist. He could feel her anger as an electrical charge, running from her hands into his body like a pair of cattle prods.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ she demanded. ‘What was it?’

  Darkus paused. ‘I don’t exactly know.’

  He felt her whole body sag behind him, as if the disappointment was too much to bear.

  ‘Great, Dorkus, that’s really helpful,’ she snapped, then silently winced – acknowledging that the use of that name for her loyal stepbrother was a new low, even for her.

  ‘What I’m saying is …’ Darkus went on, undeterred, ‘I think Dad does know more about how your mum died than he’s told you. And I promise, one way or another, we’ll get to the truth.’

  Tilly swallowed, finding it hard to say: ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’re your family too, Tilly. Remember that.’

  She nodded slowly, and Darkus thought he felt her grip gently tighten just a little, almost becoming a hug – impossible as it might have been to believe.

  ‘I’m going to get some shut-eye,’ she said, putting on a brave face then, yawning.

  ‘OK,’ replied Darkus, and felt her head lower on to his shoulder.

  The horses trooped on as the sun went down and dusk cast a swathe of blue light over the proceedings.

  In the distance, Darkus saw something that looked like a shooting star. Then another, and another. They were travelling horizontally in twinned clusters – until he realised they were the streaks of headlights from passing cars.

  ‘Uncle Bill …’ He roused the Scotsman from his slumber.

  ‘Aye.’ Bill adjusted his cowboy hat and poncho.

  ‘I think it’s civilisation,’ said Darkus, seeing a neon shroud in the southern sky.

  The horses tentatively approached a fast-moving expressway beating its own path through the desert, causing the animals to whinny and stomp their hooves at the speeding vehicles.

  ‘Nae, Doc,’ replied Bill with a smile. ‘It’s Sin City …’

  For beyond the road was a far greater light show. Off in the distance, nestled in a vast dust bowl, was a humming oasis of neon, dotted with palm trees and vertical beams strafing the heavens. In the centre was a dazzling skyline of every conceivable shape, style and colour – completely man-made and completely alien. All wrapped in an alluring, golden glow.

  ‘Welcome tae Las Vegas …’

  CHAPTER 17

  THE STRIP

  Bill and Dougal first returned the two valiant steeds to their surprised-looking owner at a local ranch off the highway.

  ‘Found what you folks were lookin’ for?’ drawled the genuine cowboy, cocking his hat as Bill unstrapped the body that was tied to the back of Dougal’s horse.

  ‘Aw, this mucker?’ replied Bill, slapping Knightley’s unconscious behind. ‘He’s an old pal. Still got some lookin’ tae dae, but we won’t be needing onie horsies where we’re going.’

  Bill’s steed stomped its hooves and whinnied loudly in his direction.

  ‘Same to ye!’ the Scotsman replied.

  ‘Won’t be needin’ this get-up either,’ added Dougal as the two brothers wriggled out of their cowboy hats, ponchos and chaps, stripping down to their boots and matching tartan undergarments.

  The spectacle was fortuitously obscured by an arriving yellow minicab, which had been hailed to take the team into town.

  ‘That’s not a dead body, is it?’ asked the driver, pointing at Knightley’s limp form leaning against a hitching post.

  ‘Just sleepin’ off a big night,’ explained Bill, who emerged with Dougal, both having changed into colour-coordinated red and green leisure suits, while retaining their cowboy boots.

  ‘Good, ’cause that’d be extra,’ replied the cabbie, perfectly serious.

  Bill hoisted Knightley up by his armpits while his brother took hold of the feet. ‘Keep yer end up, Dougal! Tae mae!’

  The Scotsmen loaded Knightley into the accommodating boot, alongside their luggage, then Bill rode shotgun and Dougal joined the teens in the backseat as the cab pulled away.

  The dark desert highway soon made way for a grid of brightly lit streets, lined with palm trees and sweltering with heat, as they closed in on the pulsing centre of ‘Sin City’.

  Darkus had informed Bill of the word Trap next to the word Vegas in Bogna’s message. But, throughout history, Las Vegas had always been a trap: it was a make-believe El Dorado, a fairy tale built by Italian-American mobsters to relieve people of their hard-earned money, with extravagant hotels, casinos, card tables and cabaret shows. Then the city passed into the hands of other gangsters, with names like Bugsy, Moe and Lucky – though some weren’t lucky enough to dodge a hitman’s bullet. And more recently Las Vegas had fallen into the hands of corporations and big businessmen who recreated it as a family mega-resort, with themed hotels complete with costumed employees, superstar concerts, boxing matches, DJs and nightclubs. ‘Gambling’ was now known as ‘gaming’. Instead of Sin City, these days Las Vegas preferred to be known as The Entertainment Capital of the World.

  And Darkus could see why. Pressing on through the city limits, they saw multiple beacons each seeking their attention, towering buildings of all imaginable shapes, elaborate light shows in every direction. They passed a vast electricity substation that took up an entire city block. The town was glowing with power, heat and colour. As they drove along Las Vegas Boulevard, they saw tourists filling the streets, alongside caped superheroes, knights in suits of armour, pirates and Roman emperors. Street promoters, or ‘hawkers’, fanned flyers through their fingers and flicked them to gain attention, before handing them out to advertise every conceivable entertainment. This was a place of extreme fantasy. Where inhibitions were left at home and indulgence ran rampant. It was a city of games and deception.

  If the Combination were planning their ultimate play, there was no better place to do it than here.

  Darkus’s phone began buzzing incessantly, picking up a mobile signal for the first time in some twenty hours. The screen flashed on with eleven missed calls, all tagged Mum. Feeling too guilt-ridden to check his voicemail, Darkus pocketed the phone and decided to wait until they’d found a room for the night. It may not have been the most logical decision, but logic appeared to feature less and less in his mind these days. Perhaps that was part of growing up. He justified his reluctance to call her by reasoning that it was the early hours of the morning in the UK, though it was evening in the Western US. He resolved to get in touch before she had breakfast on her side of the world. Then she would receive his full and humble confession of where he was and how he’d got there.

  Meanwhile, Tilly obsessively checked her own
phone signal, watching the timer enter its final hour: 00:59:46 – 45 – 44 …

  ‘This is the centre of the action,’ the driver announced. ‘The Las Vegas Strip. Where to now?’

  Bill looked to Darkus and Tilly.

  ‘I don’t know … yet,’ admitted Darkus, searching his detective instincts, but coming up blank. ‘Just drive.’

  Outside the cab, hotels started popping up, as if out of nowhere. First the Stratosphere Casino, Hotel & Tower, its space needle extending up into the sky like a rocket on a launchpad, with a rotating observation lounge a thousand feet up, and a roller coaster ride above that. Then Circus Circus, with its big-top-shaped building and a giant clown beckoning customers inside. Darkus, Tilly and the Billochs craned their necks to see each subsequent attraction, their faces painted in a kaleidoscope of colour, while Knightley simply snored from the boot.

  Next was Treasure Island, with its own pirate ship docked in a man-made bay outside the hotel. Then the more upmarket Venetian hotel with Italian-inspired architecture and water fountains leaping into the sky to music. (The driver told them that imitation gondolas cruised along imitation Venice canals inside the shopping mall.) They continued past the faux-Roman columns of Caesar’s Palace, then the Paris Las Vegas hotel with its absurd half-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower – which the driver informed them was intended as a full-scale replica, but it would have obstructed air traffic.

  ‘Wait a second …’ Darkus stopped him. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed through the windscreen to a giant reflective glass shape against the skyline.

  ‘That’s the newest development on the strip,’ replied the driver. ‘It’s called the Egyptian Hotel and Casino.’

  As they got closer, the other buildings seemed to make way to reveal the Egyptian’s true dimensions: it was a massive pyramid. Darkus did a double take. The pyramid was some forty floors high, made up entirely of mirrored glass, its walls leaning in towards the apex.

  ‘That’s where we’ll be staying,’ said Darkus decisively.

  The pyramid shape scribbled on the notepad in Survival Town was too specific to be an accident. And finding one in Las Vegas was too lucky to be chance. And besides, Darkus had learned from his father: never succumb to the luxury of coincidence. Tilly looked at him and nodded her agreement.

  The minicab pulled into the forecourt of the Egyptian and two bellboys in pharaoh headdresses, robes and sandals jogged over to open the doors. The Billochs were helped out of their seats, followed by Darkus and Tilly. Upon opening the boot, the bellboys paused, finding an unconscious Knightley Senior among the bags.

  ‘Dinnae worry, we’ll take that one,’ Bill told them, taking hold of Knightley’s upper body, before dropping him again as a passing hawker flicked a flyer and handed it to him.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Darkus.

  ‘Nae idea, Doc, but it could be vital evidence.’ Bill tucked the flyer in an inside pocket and returned to lugging Knightley.

  Darkus gave the cabbie a tip, then accompanied Tilly through the grand entrance, underneath a towering sphinx, carved out of stone, with an animal’s body and a human head staring mysteriously into the night sky. The pair proceeded through a set of dramatic columns into a vast atrium with an open-plan lobby in the centre of the pyramid. The walls extended upwards at inverted angles, each storey containing rows of rooms, like cubicles in a giant, triangular beehive. Wide escalators took tourists gliding up from the ground floor to the shopping mall and food court. It took several seconds for Darkus to get his bearings, before approaching the reception desk, which appeared to be over fifty metres long, with some twenty-five receptionists all taking bookings. Darkus went to the first one available and introduced himself.

  ‘The name’s Knightley. We don’t have a reservation, but my father is currently suffering a narcoleptic episode and we’re in need of a room for the night.’

  ‘A narco-what?’ enquired the receptionist, tilting her head.

  Darkus glanced across the foyer to the Billoch brothers who were struggling with Knightley’s body, their cowboy boots skittering on the marble floor.

  ‘Make that two rooms,’ Darkus added, then turned back to the receptionist and channelled his father’s wit and charm. ‘You see, Dad was on assignment with POTUS … That stands for the President of the United States,’ he confided.

  ‘Oh my …’ warbled the receptionist.

  Moments later, Darkus tapped Tilly on the shoulder and directed her to the lifts, which ran up the inside of the walls at a precipitous angle.

  ‘So they had a room?’ she asked.

  ‘Only the Presidential Suite,’ explained Darkus, motioning to a convoy of bellboys in his wake.

  She held up her hand to high-five him, then they fist-bumped and led the convoy into a glass elevator.

  ‘Hold on.’ Darkus hesitated – the wheels of his investigative mind turning. ‘Tilly, you get everyone settled. I have a few preliminary enquiries to carry out.’

  ‘Need help?’ she offered.

  He shook his head and stepped back into the lobby. ‘Keep an eye on Dad, and keep your phone on.’

  ‘Duh,’ she responded, glancing at the ever-present timer on her home screen.

  Uncle Bill nodded, impressed. ‘Aye, he’s a chip off the old block, that Doc,’ the Scotsman panted as he and his brother carried Knightley into the lift lengthways. ‘Watch ’is feet, Dougal!’ he snapped as the doors closed and the glass pod began rising up the pyramid wall at a thirty-nine-degree angle. ‘Oh, mah tottie scones,’ Bill exclaimed as the ground fell away.

  Darkus watched his friends rise into the heavens, then returned to the long check-in desk and approached the receptionist again.

  CHAPTER 18

  WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS

  ‘Master Knightley, how can I be of excellent service?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘Well, we’re meant to be meeting a friend here. Her name is Bogna Rejesz.’ He spelled the name out carefully. ‘Do you have a booking under that name?’

  Darkus knew it was a long shot, but sometimes long shots were all a detective had – and this city was built on gambles.

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t normally give out that kind of information,’ said the receptionist, ‘but seeing as your dad’s working with the President and all …’ she whispered, typing a command into her keyboard. She pursed her rouged lips and shook her head. ‘I apologise, but there’s nobody here by that name.’

  Darkus nodded: he thought as much. He paused a moment, sifting through the other possibilities. ‘How about Clorr Entertainment?’ Darkus spelled out the company name clearly. ‘Anything under that name?’

  The receptionist obliged by keying in another command, then she made a glum face. ‘Sorry, honey, we don’t have any reservations under that name either.’ She rested her fingers on the keyboard and glanced at the screen, before brightening. ‘Oh, wait. We do have a Miss Pam Clorr staying with us. Might that help?’

  Darkus cocked his head, taking in the name. ‘Pam Clorr … yes, that might help. Would you be so kind as to tell me which room she’s in?’

  ‘Well, I really shouldn’t … but you have such a charming accent.’

  Darkus blushed deeply. ‘It would be much appreciated, yes-yes.’

  ‘It’s room thirteen-oh-one. On the thirteenth floor.’ She added pleasantly, ‘You know some hotels in Vegas don’t even have a thirteenth floor. It’s considered bad luck. But we’re not superstitious here at the Egyptian.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ replied Darkus. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful.’

  He thought about tipping her a few dollars, then concluded it might not be appropriate. He would consult his father on the finer points of tipping versus bribery once he woke up.

  Darkus turned away from the reception desk – then stopped dead: seeing a familiar figure striding across the atrium, her stiletto heels clicking on the marble in perfect time with her swivelling hips. Darkus’s catastrophiser began pounding between his ears as he examin
ed her blonde hair and striking face, compared it against his mental database, checked again to make sure, then identified her as … Chloe Jaeger: the murder suspect from their first investigation, assistant to literary agent Bram Beecham, whom she’d killed in cold blood in order to conceal their involvement with the Combination and its sinister self-help book, The Code. Chloe had also kidnapped Darkus and Tilly in the deserted tunnels of London’s Down Street Tube station, before Tilly outwitted her with one of Miss Khan’s early prototypes. Chloe’s boss, Underwood, had subsequently fallen under a Tube train – only to reappear very much alive in Harley Street a matter of days ago. Chloe, on the other hand, was never apprehended – only to show up here, now, at the Egyptian Hotel.

  Coincidence? Impossible, concluded Darkus. Chloe was here on the orders of the Combination. But what was the reason for the game? Why had the Knightleys been lured across the world? To become the victims of a simple murder plot? The Combination could have done that at home. If this was a trap – what was the desired result?

  Darkus didn’t move a muscle, using the line of tourists at reception as cover, tracking Chloe with his eyes. She was dressed in a fashionable jacket, blouse and skirt ensemble, as if she were attending a business event. Without even glancing in his direction, she walked to a lift on the opposite wall, entered it, selected a button and the doors closed. Darkus crossed the lobby in haste, watching as the pod sped up the incline at thirty-nine degrees. He could just make out her slim figure through the glass as the lift car slowed, reaching her floor. Darkus scanned the inverted wall and made a brief calculation of the number of storeys. She stepped out on to the thirteenth floor. Another coincidence? The line of reasoning was becoming clearer. Had Chloe adopted the name ‘Pam Clorr’? Was she responsible for snatching Bogna? Each storey of the pyramid opened out on to the lobby area, so Darkus would be able to see which direction she took. He watched and waited, squinting up at the rows of rooms, but there was no sign of her. She’d exited the lift, then simply vanished. Maybe there was something strange about the thirteenth floor?