Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (15 page)

Knightley drove Darkus and Tilly to the venue in his cab, occasionally observing Tilly suspiciously in the rearview mirror. The fare on the meter had now ticked up to £500.40. Darkus took the opportunity to brief his father on every relevant detail of the case so far. Knightley digested the facts and found no fault with his reasoning.

“First-rate, Doc.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Knightley then described the unusual circumstances of his latest wake-up call, and the fact that his only recollections of the recent trance were two things.

“The number two. And the letter
D
,” said Knightley, mystified.

Even for Darkus, these two characters were too obscure to decipher, but he reassured his dad that whatever the meaning, they would work it out. Together.

Darkus observed that the last time they’d traveled in the cab, his father had kept the glass divider closed, keeping a safe distance between them: a clear partition between their two worlds. But now it was different—the glass divider was open. They were more than father and son. They were partners.

The plan was for the Knightleys to pose as prospective bidders. Bill would be confined to the van, monitoring the surveillance systems.
The Code
was sure to attract a good deal of attention, especially among those who viewed it with an almost religious fervor. These were the very people the Knightleys were seeking to investigate.

In private, Knightley explained to Darkus that if Bogey Two had been ordered to attend the auction, there was little doubt that the Combination had an interest in it, and other enemy agents would almost certainly be in place. However, they were still nowhere near a credible theory to explain
The Code
, the Combination, or the crimes. Knightley reminded him that the possibility of supernatural forces could not be dismissed.

Also in private, Bill explained to Darkus that his father’s obsession with the mysterious organization was still a belief based on conjecture, not fact; there was no evidence at all of supernatural involvement; and Knightley’s faculties were still impaired, and could not be relied upon.

For his part, Darkus decided to focus on the facts alone and forgo interpretation until a logical solution presented itself.

While Knightley went to examine the auction room, Darkus walked through the corridors and galleries to find Tilly sitting in the foyer surrounded by other bidders—all (including her) were reading
The Code
.

“Any symptoms?” he asked her.

“Actually, I really like it,” she said without looking up from the book. Darkus’s brows furrowed. “I’m just messing with you,” she admitted with a smile. “It’s everything that’s wrong with the world.” Her phone started vibrating again, and the word “
Dad!
”
flashed up on screen. She quickly rejected the call.

“How many times has he called?” said Darkus.

“Sixty-three so far.”

“At least he cares.”

“He said that if I ran away again, he’d send me back to Cranston permanently. Looks like it’s ‘go to jail’ time.”

“Freedom’s a state of mind,” said Darkus.

“What’s that from?”

“Krishnamurti. He’s an Indian spiritual thinker.”

She looked him up and down. “You’ve got even more hidden in that brain than I thought.”

“Thanks,” said Darkus, unsure whether it was a compliment.

“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover,” she concluded.

“It would seem not.”

“I thought I could handle anything. I mean, have you seen what people post on YouTube? But that dead guy. That was something else.”

“I suppose I’m just a bit more familiar with that sort of thing.”

“How?” she asked, puzzled.

“From the Knowledge.” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I know a little about a lot of things. Or, conversely . . . not much about anything.” He looked unhappy at his own deduction.

“Relax. Most people don’t know anything about anything.”

“Very true,” said Darkus.

“You know, this is easily the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“It’s also the longest you’ve gone between hair colors. The brown does suit you, though.”

“You noticed.”

“It’s my business to notice.”

They stood opposite each other, and anyone who had known Knightley and his former assistant, Carol, could have been forgiven for seeing an uncanny resemblance in Darkus and Tilly.

“Well, we’d better take a seat,” said Darkus. “The auction’s about to begin.”

“You go ahead. I’m going to finish this chapter.”

Darkus nodded and started making his way through the crowd toward the main gallery, until a hand stopped his arm.

“Darkus?” A male voice interrupted him. “Darkus Knightley?”

Darkus turned to see a medium-sized, middle-aged man standing before him, wearing a dark suit and trench coat. He had short-clipped dark hair and Coke-bottle glasses that enlarged his eyes unnaturally in proportion to the rest of his face. The result was that his features were almost impossible to describe, and Darkus would later have trouble remembering the exact details of his face—which was most unlike him. The stranger was virtually motionless, which lent the effect that his clothes hung off him like a scarecrow’s and gave very little impression as to what, if anything, lay beneath.

The crowd moved around the two of them as if they weren’t there.

“Do I know you?” asked Darkus.

“I’m a f-friend of the family,” said the man, with a slight stutter. “You probably don’t remember me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Names aren’t important. What is important is the Knowledge.” The man studied Darkus’s expression for any reaction.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a very clever boy,” the man continued, “but I’ve been watching you. In fact, I was watching you at Shrubwoods Hospice. I
know
that you know about the Knowledge.” The man’s features spread into a broad grin that made his face resemble an excavated skull.

“The Knowledge has been destroyed,” said Darkus.

“Not entirely. It still exists inside your head,” the man countered, examining Darkus as if he were a lab specimen. “Which is why I must warn you that any f-further interference by you in this matter will jeopardize both your life and your f-father’s.”

Darkus felt a familiar chill down his spine, accompan­ied by the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. “Why don’t you come and talk to my father? I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss it with you.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. If you end this investigation now, I won’t need to interfere in your life again. However, if you persist, I guarantee you will lose your f-father all over again—at best, to another coma; at worst, to a more . . . permanent state of unconsciousness.”

“Who are you?” demanded Darkus.

“Do as I say, and spare yourself and your f-father a world of trouble,” he warned him. “Enjoy your evening.” He turned away and rejoined the flow of people. Darkus tried to follow, but within seconds the stranger had been completely absorbed by the crowd.

A moment later, Darkus was already struggling to recall the details of his face.

What he was left with, however, was a sizable dilemma.

If he told his father about this stark warning, the investigation would be aborted, and Darkus’s relationship with his dad would return to the everyday, becoming a faint shadow of its current incarnation. The case would remain unsolved, and all the possibilities of their working partnership would be banished to the realm of “what if.” However, if Darkus concealed the warning long enough to gather the necessary evidence, he could buy himself enough time to solve the case
and
cement the partnership with his father for good. This second option was too tempting to pass up, and Darkus was confident that he would find a solution before the stranger’s threat became a reality.

Besides, a “world of trouble” was still more appealing than a return to the domestic monotony of? Wolseley Close.

Darkus walked into the auction room with the secret weighing heavily on him. He sat beside his father in the back as the audience shifted in their seats and shuffled their catalogs. Bidding on the lesser items was already under way, proceeding swiftly and efficiently under the direction of a portly auctioneer in a three-piece suit. Above the podium a large screen displayed a picture of each item, from weekend getaways to collectible memorabilia. A security guard stood in the shadows backstage with his arms crossed.

Knightley’s nostrils flared as he scanned the faces of the prospective bidders, who all appeared to be extremely wealthy. He noted every minor tic as they raised their hands, competing to outbid each other. Knightley’s fierce expression was punctuated only by the report of the auctioneer’s gavel on the block, which caused a minute twitch with each hit.

Meanwhile, Darkus scanned the room for the man who had delivered the stark warning, but failed to find him. Tilly snuck in and sat beside him.

“Anything to report?” Darkus whispered.

She shook her head. “
Nada
.”

“Remember, tonight is for the children,” the auctioneer announced. “Do I hear fifteen to benefit the children? Fifteen.” He pointed to a bidder in the center of the crowd. “I have fifteen. Do I hear seventeen?”

A bidder in the front row raised his hand.

“Seventeen from the front row. Seventeen? Any more bids?” He paused another few moments, then slammed the gavel on the block. “Seventeen.”

The auctioneer did a pirouette, eliciting careless applause from the crowd.

“As you know, tonight is a very special night,” he went on, “and one particular lot I know is of great interest to many of you . . . I refer, of course, to the signed first edition of
The Code
,
by Ambrose Chambers.” The crowd cooed and rumbled. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Chambers is a very private—let’s be honest, a
completely
private man. But fortunately for us, his literary agent, Bram Beecham, was generous enough to contact Mr. Chambers to procure us this very sought-after and unique item.” Darkus and his father exchanged a glance. “And, I might add,” the auctioneer continued, “tonight’s cause is one that is especially close to Mr. Beecham’s heart, as he lost his own beloved daughter, Samantha, to leukemia two years ago. So let’s pay a special tribute to her and say a heartfelt thank-you to Mr. Bram Beecham.” The auctioneer pointed off toward the back of the crowd. “Bram?”

Sitting at the end of a row, finding himself almost launched to his feet by the crowd, Beecham reluctantly took a bow, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else on earth.

“Thank you, Bram,” said the auctioneer as Beecham quickly sat down again. “So, let’s take a look at what we’ve all been waiting for . . .”

An assistant walked onto the stage carrying a small black leather case. Simultaneously a photograph appeared on the screen overhead, showing the title page, clearly signed:

The auctioneer made a show of opening the case. “Without further ado, may I present
The Code,
by Ambrose Chambers. A motivational—nay, inspirational—book, based on ancient mystical wisdom drawn from across the globe. A phenomenon that is currently topping the bestseller lists. I have here a signed first edition. The only one in existence.”

The auctioneer held up the book, opened it to the signature page, and displayed it to the audience, which in turn descended into reverent silence, underlaid by the faint hum of bidders fanning themselves with catalogs.

“Dad,” whispered Darkus.

“Yes?”

“Beecham told me he hadn’t had any contact with Chambers for months. But the signature’s dated three days ago,” said Darkus, indicating the image on the screen.

“Then it would appear Beecham was being economical with the truth.”

The auctioneer solemnly closed the book and replaced it in the black leather case.

“The bidding opens at ten thousand pounds. Do I hear ten?” A hand went up near the aisle. “Ten.” Now a catalog was raised. “Fifteen . . .” Another hand leaped up. “Twenty. I have twenty. I have twenty-five.”