CHAPTER 37--HEAT
On a winter afternoon seven years earlier, Brian Parker and Tim Gifford huddled in Tim’s basement and committed one of the high crimes of childhood: they played with matches.
They knelt facing each other, an ashtray between them and a bottle of Febreeze at hand to mask the scent. Tim took the wooden kitchen matches he had pilfered from the back of the silverware drawer and struck one down the side of the box. At the millisecond of ignition, a speck of phosphorous splintered from the match head and sailed onto the back of Brian’s hand. The white-hot speck didn’t just burn; it burrowed into his flesh. Brian leaped to his feet, slapping away the now blackened crumb. The heat only intensified. He ran to the bathroom and shoved his hand under a stream of cold tap water. Only then did the burning subside, leaving behind a white pinprick of a scar.
Brian never imagined he would feel a sharper pain or a more intense heat. But if that bit of phosphorous from seven years ago was an ember, the invisible beam now boring into his chest was an inferno. Every sinew in his body clenched at the concentrated blast, and his eyes squeezed shut. Air exploded from his lungs as if he were punched in the stomach by an armored fist.
“One,” Skyrm said, beginning the count.
Brian lurched left, then right, instinctively trying to throw himself out of the beam’s path. But the bungee cords held the chair steady. The heat in Brian’s chest radiated through his body like wildfire. He screamed.
“Two.”
Brian kicked backward, but the chair wouldn’t budge in that direction either. As pain seared through him like a maelstrom, his besieged mind attempted to identify the sensation. It was like the worst-ever sunburn instantly turning every inch of his skin pink. No, it was like being tossed into an oven. No, it was like being tossed into a volcano.
“Three.”
Heat consumed him, addling his senses. If he was being cooked alive, why couldn’t he smell the smoke from his burning clothes? Why couldn’t he hear his flesh sizzle? The only noise he heard was the ungodly wail of some strange animal. In an instant of terror, Brian recognized the wail as his own.
“Four.”
Is this how Joan of Arc felt as she died? Except she was standing, not sitting. The muscles in his neck seized, and he arched his back in agony. Something snapped. Oh God, his spine?
“Five.”
Brian Parker’s reality was the conflagration raging through every cell in his body. He could do nothing but open his mouth wider and scream louder.
“Six.”
Reality shifted.
Brian experienced an instant of weightlessness as every seized muscle went slack at once. His cry silenced by surprise, Brian opened his eyes to a new world. One moment he knew only fire and pain, and the next moment they had ceased. Utterly. The only remaining sensation was a tingling in his chest. His throat, raw from screaming, felt worse. And there was something new, a sharp soreness in his lower back. Was his spine broken? Brian concentrated on wiggling his fingers and toes. To his relief, they responded. He sat up straight and felt the back of the chair move with him. The ropes binding his arms loosened. He had broken the chair, not his spine.
Skyrm dropped the remote control onto the desk and pounced at Brian. He clutched the arms of Brian’s chair, pinning him in place. Brian imagined he saw movement in the background, but Skyrm leaned in so that his face, hideous with a maniac’s smile, filled Brian’s field of vision.
“How did it feel?” Skyrm asked. His eyes glittered.
“Hurt like hell,” Brian said, his voice scratchy.
Skyrm chuckled. “Hell. So appropriate. Yes, I sent you to hell. And I can send you again. Many times.”
Brian flexed his arms, trying to keep the rope taut and the back of the chair steady. He didn’t want Skyrm to know how close he was to freeing himself. Was Brian’s scream so loud that Skyrm didn’t hear the chair crack? Apparently so, because he continued his taunts.
“Your first trip to hell was solely for my entertainment,” Skyrm said. “But there is one question I need you to answer, and that will require further visits.”
Brian gaped back at Skyrm. The man knew everything about him. What was left to say?
“Have you told anyone else?” Skyrm asked.
“Anyone else? Told them what?”
“About your recent adventures, about this operation.” Skyrm was no longer smiling. “We know you haven’t contacted your family, because Silver’s man is still in place. And we have been watching your school group, so we know you haven’t contacted them.”
Brian held his breath, fearing that Skyrm was about to threaten Tim or Miss Weninger.
“What I need to know,” Skyrm went on, “is whether you have contacted someone else, maybe left a message with one of the girl’s schoolmates, or sent a letter to a friend in Wisconsin.”
“Who could I tell? No one would believe me.”
“A reasonable answer,” Skyrm said, still leaning over Brian. “Let’s see whether you stick to it after another trip to hell.” His smile returned. “Seven seconds, this time. Then eight. Then nine, until I am certain you’re telling—”
Two beeps sounded, and Skyrm’s face wrenched in agony. He squawked and pitched forward as the Prometheus ray scorched into his back. He jackknifed to the right to escape the beam, but lost his balance and fell to the floor. Brian already was moving and he felt the heat ray’s sting for less than a second before he kicked away from Skyrm and dropped into a roll. His arms came free as the ropes fell away and the back of the chair skittered across the tiles. Brian’s somersault carried him to the wall, ending with his heels touching the vinyl baseboard.
Lifting his head, Brian caught a glimpse of Larissa, awake and out of her chair. She stood beside the desk watching him anxiously over her shoulder. Her hands, still tied behind her back, lingered above the Prometheus gun’s remote control.
Brian rose to his feet next to the bungee cord stretched between the wall and his chair. Skyrm was up, too. He advanced at Brian, then recoiled with a scowl as he stepped into the invisible beam. Skyrm took a step back and reached inside his jacket.
Brian reacted before Skyrm’s pistol could appear. With straightened fingers, he chopped upward at the bungee cord’s hook.
The hook tore away a chunk of the chair rail as it flew forward and smashed into Skyrm’s larynx. Skyrm dropped his gun and let out a ragged gasp when the chair, yanked toward the opposite wall by the second bungee cord, cracked into his shins. Entangled in the cords and fighting to breathe, Skyrm tumbled over the chair.
Brian angled toward the desk and dived underneath the Prometheus weapon. He rolled to his feet and grabbed Larissa’s chair by its front legs as he came up. Brian lifted the chair above his head. He shook the chair once to flatten it, and spun about to face Skyrm.
Skyrm was up on one knee, still tangled in the cords, and reaching for his pistol. Brian swung the chair hard into Skyrm’s chest and knocked him onto his back. Skyrm kicked at Brian, but Brian swiveled out of the way. He brought the chair down again, clouting Skyrm’s left temple. Skyrm went limp.
Brian threw the chair aside and picked up Skyrm’s pistol. He hopped back out of Skyrm’s reach and waited for the man to move. Skyrm didn’t, except for the rise of his chest that accompanied his raspy breathing.
Brian stood there, gun in hand. He kept the barrel pointed several inches wide of Skyrm. Brian had played with many squirt guns and toy pistols (a few more recently than he cared to admit) but this was the first time he had held the real thing. It was heavier than he expected. The words on the grip read Astra Condor, a make unknown to him. Brian stared at the pistol as if hypnotized. All those spy novels had said holding a gun brought a feeling of power, but Brian felt revulsion.
“Brian?”
Snapped from his trance, Brian turned to Larissa and smiled. “Thanks for the rescue. How long were you awake?”
“Since just before he came in,” she said.
Brian placed the gun on the
desk, relieved to no longer be touching it. He noticed the Prometheus controls and flipped the off switch. Then he started to untie Larissa’s hands. He asked, “How did you remain so calm when he shook you?”
“I was using yoga relaxation taught to me by my mother,” she said. “But it still was not easy. And you? Are you all right after what he did to you?”
“I’m fine,” he said as he pulled the rope from Larissa’s wrists.
“But that scream!” Larissa shuddered. “You howled like a wolf in a trap.”
Brian ran his fingers through his hair. “Remember when I said wearing wet socks was the worst feeling in the world?”
Larissa nodded.
“Well, it’s now a distant second.”
Larissa chuckled. Brian was pleased to make her laugh again.
“Your father and Roland Eck delivered on their promise. As soon as Skyrm shut off the machine, the pain vanished just like that.” Brian snapped his fingers.
He thought she would smile at that, too, but her face clouded. “How will we find my father?” she asked.
Brian placed a hand on her shoulder. “I have an idea. But first,” Brian nodded toward the unconscious Skyrm, “we have to take care of him.”
CHAPTER 38--DISPOSAL
Brian and Larissa trussed Skyrm up securely using the ropes, the bungee cords, and his own belt. They then dragged him into a stall in the men’s restroom they located down the hall.
Brian pulled off Skyrm’s tie and used it as a blindfold. He wadded up bits of wet toilet paper to plug Skyrm’s ears. Recalling a bizarre medical fact he read in Clandestinely Yours—that people knocked unconscious by a blow to the head often vomit when they come to—Brian decided not to put a gag in Skyrm’s mouth. “I hate this guy,” he said, “but I don’t want to be responsible for killing him.” Finally, they searched Skyrm’s pockets, finding a switchblade, a set of keys, and a wallet that contained 730 euros. Brian felt no guilt in taking the money.
In the hallway, where they were happy to discover their backpacks, Brian gave Larissa the switchblade and asked her to drop it in the ladies’ room trashcan. “They won’t look for it there,” he said. “Oh, and the gun, too. I’ll go get it.”
“Shouldn’t we keep the gun to protect ourselves?” Larissa asked.
“Would you actually shoot someone, even to protect ourselves?”
Larissa opened her mouth, but didn’t speak immediately.
“Exactly,” Brian said, “you’d hesitate. So would I. But anyone pointing a gun at us wouldn’t hesitate. I’d say a gun would just give them a more compelling reason to shoot us.”
Larissa nodded. “Mais oui, ‘Don’t pull a gun unless you are willing to use it.’ I think I heard this in The Godfather.”
Brian shrugged. “Haven’t seen it.”
He sidestepped another lecture on his pitiful lack of culture by returning to the office to retrieve the semiautomatic. Copying actions he had seen in many films (just not The Godfather), Brian pressed a button on the pistol’s grip and slipped the magazine from the butt. Brian figured Skyrm would carry a round in the chamber. He worked the slide and, sure enough, a bullet popped out and bounced across the desktop. Brian pocketed the ammunition, planning to dispose of it later. Larissa appeared in the doorway, and he handed her the pistol grip-first.
When Larissa returned from hiding the weapons, Brian was at the desk standing over the telephone. “I have an idea how we can get your father back,” he said, “but we need to gather a little more intelligence. Roland Eck called Skyrm on this phone. Skyrm said he was hours away, so we have to learn where that call came from.”
Brian pointed at the LCD display above the phone’s numbered buttons. “Do you know how to bring up the number of the last incoming call? Everything’s in Spanish, and I’d hate to delete it accidentally.”
Larissa pressed two buttons and the number appeared on the display. Brian took a pen and memo pad from the desk and copied the digits. “This number is familiar,” he said. “Do you recognize it?”
Larissa shook her head. “Only vaguely.”
“Well, can you tell where the call came from?”
“There is no country code, so it must be from another city inside Spain.”
“I guess we should call and find out,” Brian said. “Can you put it on speaker?”
Larissa did, then triggered the automatic redial. The ring tone chirred three times before the call picked up and a recorded female voice recited a message in Spanish. Brian recognized three words: Barcelona Paquete Servicio.
Larissa translated. “It is saying, ‘Thank you for calling Barcelona Paquete Servicio. We are closed for the day. Please call again during our business hours. If your call is urgent—’”
Brian cut off the call. “Yeah, I figured that’s what she was saying,” he said. “But that’s where we saw the phone number, in the van. Apparently Barcelona Paquete Servicio is a real company, not just a name on a phony sign.”
“Yes, I remember,” Larissa said. “Barcelona Paquete Servicio—you would call it Barcelona Parcel Service in America, I believe.”
“It must be the name of their front company,” Brian said, thinking out loud. “But if it’s a real company, then they can hide the Prometheus weapon within a fleet of identical delivery vans.” He nodded his head in admiration. “Hell, that’s genius.”
Larissa looked around the room. “Where do you guess we are?” she asked.
“We must be in that industrial park where Masson stopped on the way to San Gregorio,” Brian said. “I saw tools in the warehouse area, so I think this is the workshop Masson and your father talked about.”
“My father,” Larissa said. “You said you had a plan.”
“I do,” Brian said, “but we have to work fast. We have to be done and out of here before Eck arrives.” He looked into her eyes. “How long would it take for someone to drive from Barcelona to Zaragoza?”
“About three hours, but—”
“We’d better figure on two. Now, if we do this right, we’ll be able to bargain with Eck to get your father back.”
“Bargain?” Larissa’s eyes widened. “Are we are going to trade my father for the man in the WC?”
“No, Eck wouldn’t trade for him. But he will trade for that,” Brian said, pointing at the Prometheus gun suspended from the ceiling.
“What are we going to do with that?”
“It depends,” Brian replied.
“On what?”
“On how fast I can learn to drive a forklift.”
CHAPTER 39--CALLS
As Brian listened to the harsh ring tones of Barcelona’s phone system, his eyes lifted to the most astonishing and oddest building he had ever seen: La Sagrada Família, the church of the Holy Family. Larissa stood beside him, at the first pay phone they had found outside the Sagrada Família Metro stop, and she was also spellbound by the four spires that looked like titanic, hollowed-out taper candles scraping at the clouds.
From the guidebook he bought at the Barcelona train station that morning, Brian knew this church, still under construction after more than a century, had become Barcelona’s symbol. But no guidebook’s words or pictures could have prepared him for the experience of standing in La Sagrada Familia’s presence. In many ways, it was the opposite of St-Sernin in Toulouse. St-Sernin was a squat, severe fortress that hugged the earth. La Sagrada Família was a soaring, surreal sand castle that yearned for heaven. With a façade of twists and crags and nodules, the cathedral looked organic, not man-made. It was as if God had reached into a coral reef and the spires miraculously formed as he withdrew his hand.
A crackle on the phone line tore Brian’s thoughts away from heaven. The same woman from the recorded message answered. “Buenas tardes,” she said. “Barcelona Paquete Servicio. En qué puedo ayudarle?”
Brian replied, “I would like to speak to Roland Eck.”
The woman hesitated, then responded in English, “I am sorry, but no one with that name works her
e.”
“My name is Brian Parker, and Roland Eck will want to talk to me. Tell him I will call back in exactly half an hour.” Brian looked at his Batman watch: It read 2:35 p.m.
“I will see what I can do, sir,” the woman said. Brian hung up before she spoke again.
Larissa had watched him during the brief conversation. He touched her arm and said, “Time to roll.”
Brian took a last look at La Sagrada Família before they hurried down the steps to the Metro. In the station they passed a man playing a harp, his face serene as his fingers danced upon the strings. Earlier in the day, as the pair scouted Barcelona for pay-phone locations that suited Brian’s plan, they had seen scores of street performers. This was the second harpist. Brian wondered how the man got the five-foot-tall instrument down the stairs.
A westbound train arrived moments after they reached the platform. Brian could still hear the harp music as they stepped aboard and the doors closed. The song was so familiar, but he couldn’t place it. The melody was off—too slow, too lilting.
“Do you know that song?” he asked Larissa as they sat. “I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t name it.” Worried about her father, Larissa had said little since they left the warehouse outside Zaragoza. Brian latched onto any lame attempt to start a conversation.
She nodded. “Oui. It is by the Beatles. ‘Help!’”
“Help,” Brian said. “We could sure use it.”
The corners of her lips quivered upward. It was almost a smile, and Brian was relieved to see it. The train whooshed out of the station and the windows went black. Brian held Larissa’s hand and closed his eyes. In his thoughts he reviewed everything that had happened since they first called Barcelona Paquete Servicio fourteen hours earlier in the warehouse.
As it turned out, driving a forklift was easy, not unlike a go-kart. From the pictograms on the dashboard, Brian figured how to operate the lift. Within ten minutes they had moved a crate, empty except for foam packing material, beneath the Prometheus prototype. Along the wall of the warehouse Brian had found the tools he needed to unbolt the weapon from the ceiling and let it fall into the crate. The device hit the foam padding with a giant wuff and a tiny snap. Brian didn’t worry about the snap. The prototype did not have to be intact. It just had to be gone before Eck arrived. He and Larissa hastily nailed the crate shut and pushed it into the hall where the forklift, too wide to fit through the doorway, waited.
The Boy Who Knew Too Much Page 19