Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (10 page)

“You’re staying right here, young lady.”

Tilly sat on the stairs sullenly.

“Doc . . . ?” Jackie rested her hands on his shoulders. “Is this what
you
want?”

“It’s the logical solution,” he answered.

Jackie’s eyes welled up, and she lost the capacity to speak.

“Keep your phone turned on, all right?” she managed.

“Of course,” he replied, knowing that she wanted a bigger display of affection, but he had a job to do, one that required his full and immediate concentration. He straightened his collar and took his Donegal tweed hat from the stand. “I suggest you call Bogna and ask her to take care of Dad until he wakes up.” He reminded her, and himself, “All the available evidence indicates that he
will
wake up.”

“Okay, sweetie.” She nodded, dazed.

Darkus fixed his hat on his head and followed Bill down the driveway. On cue, the silver Ford sedan pulled up to collect them. Bill slid himself into the backseat, and Darkus squeezed in beside him. Jackie watched anxiously from the front lawn as the driver hit the accelerator and the car pulled away.

On the doorstep, Tilly watched them go, her fists clenched.

Uncle Bill directed the driver onto a main road heading farther into the countryside.

“Give me yer phone, Doc,” he said.

Darkus obediently retrieved it from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it over. Bill slid the back of the phone off, removed the battery and the SIM card, tossed them out the car window, and handed the useless handset back to Darkus.

“What did you do that for?”

“Ye can be traced with it. We cannot afford that. Yer mother will understand. Alan always said we cannot let anything distract us when we’re on a case.”

Darkus looked at the handset, shrugged, and put it back in his pocket. It had just been confirmed that he was now officially on a case. Darkus knew he had to temper any excitement or apprehension with the need to remain acutely calm and observant. Despite his father’s absence, a long-cherished dream was finally becoming a reality, and the catastrophizer had to be kept well oiled and in perfect working order. He directed his attention outside and tested himself by memorizing the turns and road signs.

Meanwhile, Uncle Bill sat next to him in silence, his eyes closed and his chest heaving. Darkus observed that this wasn’t a state of meditation: Bill was, in fact, asleep. His head lolled back with his mouth ajar. Fortunately, the driver was focused on the road, turning the wheel precisely. They descended through a wooded valley into a large cathedral town, taking a bend that finally roused Bill from his slumber.

He grunted and looked up. “Now, Doc, the young man we’re going to meet is Lee Wadsworth, a fifteen-year-old schoolboy with no previous convictions of any kind. That is, until he read
The Code
. His mam says he bought it ten days ago from a local branch of a chain bookstore. When he first looked at it, he was admitted to the hospital with an epileptic fit of some kind. To be exact, he was saying insects were coming out of the book and trying to kill him.”

“Most peculiar,” remarked Darkus.

“Strange thing is, after the fit, he returned to the same store and bought the book. In fact, according to the store assistant, he bought several copies of it for family and friends.”

“Any history of mental illness? Problems at school?” asked Darkus.

“None,” replied Bill.

Darkus mulled it over. “Proceed.”

“Well, he appeared to show no signs of any problem and life returned to normal, until several days later when he failed to show up for school,” explained Bill. “His teachers could not find him, nor could his mam, until he was apprehended by local police, trying to rob a bank, armed with a hammer.”

“Which I assume was stored in the house for domestic use, not purchased expressly for the crime,” said Darkus.

“Correct,” replied Bill. “The crime was not well planned or executed at all.”

“Intriguing,” said Darkus. “Did he give any explanation for his actions?”

“Aye,” said Bill. “He said the book told him to do it.”

The police station was a drab mid-century design with whitewashed walls and faded signage. Uncle Bill led the way, displaying his ID to the policemen on duty, who inspected Darkus with curiosity. Darkus avoided eye contact and followed Bill to a holding cell in the center of the building.

As they approached the bars, Bill concluded his account quietly. “The six robbery suspects have only one thing in common,” he explained. “Their apparent fixation with the book . . .”

Darkus peered through the bars. Inside the cell, Lee Wadsworth was reclining on a bunk, still wearing his school uniform; his shoes had no laces and his pants lacked a belt, both confiscated for his own safety. His hands were gripping a copy of
The Code
. He looked up, attempting a smile through his braces, then returned to reading, as if he were in a library instead of a police station.

“Mr. Wadsworth,” Bill addressed him. “We’re here to talk to ye about what happened in town last week.”

“Can’t you see I’m reading?” the young man replied.

“Aye, but we have some questions that need answering,” said Bill. “Questions it seems only ye can answer.”

“
This
. . . ,” Lee lisped, holding up the book. “This has all the answers. Would you like a copy?”

“We have several copies.”

“Then I suggest you read them.” He buried his head in the book again.

Darkus observed the suspect carefully, feeling his breath speed up and his nostrils flare, drawing extra supplies of oxygen to his pulsing brain. After all, this was his first real case, and he didn’t want to let the team down.

Bill spoke to Darkus in hushed tones. “Each of the suspects had a copy of the book on them when they committed the crime. We have not seen anything like it since
The
Catcher in the Rye
,” he said grimly. He turned to address the suspect. “Lee, I understand your book
spoke
to ye. Perhaps ye can tell us what it said?”

Lee lowered the book and began to talk. “That we’re approaching a new consciousness, a new unity between us and the universe.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” Lee challenged him.

“Do continue.”

“Our destinies are guided by one infinite power—an inner voice, the spiritual transmitter. All you have to do is focus it and concentrate on what you want,” he said wisely. “What do
you
want?”

“I want to know why ye robbed that bank.”

“I only took what was already mine,” said Lee. “The book told me that good things would come to me—and they did. The universe rewarded me.”

“But that money was not yours,” Bill objected.

“Yes, it was.”

“According to our records, ye don’t even have an account there.”

“I attracted it to me,” he replied.

“Ye broke the law,” Bill reminded him.

“Not the universal law,” said Lee. “You see, the truth is, anything’s possible with the power of the mind.”

Bill looked stumped by this. “But that does not bring us any closer to solving the mystery now, does it?”

Lee turned his attention to Darkus. “Perhaps
he
can understand. A young mind is always open.”

Darkus caught Lee’s eye, finding a cold abyss where he suspected a perfectly normal teenager had once resided. Feeling his piercing stare, Darkus was reminded that he was a long way from the harmless, amateur detective work he’d previously engaged in.

Suddenly the book dropped from Lee’s grasp and his hands shot through the bars of the cell, finding Darkus’s neck.

“
Read the book!
” Lee shouted. “All your questions will be answered!”

Darkus recoiled, finding the suspect’s fingers tightening around his neck, blushing red against his skin. Before Darkus could respond, Bill wheezed and hurtled to the rescue.

“Let ’im go!” Bill yanked Lee’s arms, slamming the suspect’s head against the bars. Lee slumped back, stunned. “Ye okay, Darkus?”

Darkus straightened his collar and took a moment to compose himself. “I’m fine,” he replied, steadying his breathing.

Bill exhaled and took a notepad from one of his voluminous overcoat pockets. “It may interest ye to know, Lee, that other readers have experienced similar effects. Do ye know or have ye ever consorted with Marcus Morris, Sheila Trimball, Brian Pilkington . . .” Bill trailed off as Lee picked up his book, raising it like a shield, and continued reading. Bill turned to Darkus. “We’re quite certain there’s no connection between them.”

Darkus nodded, inwardly examining the available evidence. “I’m not a believer in the supernatural, but on the surface this bears all the hallmarks of a grimoire.”

“A grim wha . . . ?” asked Bill.

“Followers of the black arts call it a ‘necronomicon,’” Darkus added.

“Not helping,” complained Bill.

“A book of magic,” explained Darkus, “dating back to incantations first discovered on clay tablets in ancient Mesopotamia, then appearing later in the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

Bill listened, impressed.

“The books contained charms reputed to bring health, success, and fulfillment,” said Darkus slowly. “Of course, it’s all a myth.”

“Perhaps not to those who
believe
,” Bill suggested.

“Indeed. In early Christianity, the Church feared these books were cursed and capable of manifesting demons . . . bringing madness and eternal damnation upon all those who opened them. The books were burned and the libraries ransacked.”

Bill raised his eyebrows.

“I have one last question for the suspect,” said Darkus. “Dad always wrote: ‘Start any investigation with the path of least resistance.’ So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Be my guest,” Bill replied.

“Mr. Wadsworth,” Darkus began, “describe the voice that you heard.”

Lee looked up. “It’s the book . . . It speaks on a frequency that is specially tuned to me.”

“I understand, but describe it for me. Was it male or female?”

“Male. It was a male voice.”

“Was it your own voice?”

“No.”

“Was it foreign?”

“No. It was English.”

“Good,” said Darkus. “Would you characterize it as baritone, tenor, or soprano?”

“Midrange,” said Lee. “Sometimes . . . ,” he continued, “the voice cut out, then came back again.”

“I see,” said Darkus. “Anything else?”

“That’s all I can remember.”

Bill turned to Darkus. “Where are ye going with this, Doc?”

“It’s too early to say.”

“Aye, you’re a chip off the old block,” remarked Bill.

“That concludes my line of questioning,” said Darkus. “Thank you, Mr. Wadsworth.”

Lee frowned and returned his attention to the book.

Bill guided Darkus away from the cell past the policemen, who were still watching with skeptical curiosity.

“Have ye got any more ideas?” Bill inquired.

“I suggest we interview his mom.”

“Me too,” replied Bill.

Chapter 9

The Law of Guesswork

The short drive to the Wadsworth residence was accompanied by heavy rain that obscured the windshield and did little to erase the sense of doom surrounding the case. Darkus turned the facts over in his mind, but saw no clear solution. Was the book somehow to blame? Or was it merely an innocent bystander, a talisman for the likes of Lee Wadsworth to use for his own misguided entertainment and financial gain? The first rule of detect­ive work was never to succumb to the luxury of coincidence. There had to be a connection. And Darkus hoped that he could work out what it was.

Bill took the opportunity to give Darkus a short history of the Department of the Unexplained and how its oddball ideas had fallen victim to far-reaching budget cuts. As a result, the department was now little more than a loose-knit collection of bureaucrats, conspiracy theorists, and those that the rest of Scotland Yard (the few who even remembered the department’s existence) simply regarded as quacks. It was in this climate of pen-pushing and penny-pinching that Bill had approached his Oxford pal Alan Knightley, someone he could rely on to carry out an investigation by any means necessary, even if Bill didn’t always approve of—or sometimes even believe—the results.

Now that Knightley Senior was once again out of action, Bill seemed more than happy to rely on Darkus instead.

The driver turned into an estate of neatly arranged newly built houses, all with identical lawns, dotted with paved walkways. They pulled up and parked outside the Wadsworth residence. Uncle Bill led the way, removing his hat and ringing the doorbell.

An exhausted, slightly overweight woman in jogging pants answered the door.