Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (24 page)

The nurse returned to the line. “Mr. Billoch is currently in surgery for his leg. It’ll be several hours before he comes around from the anesthetic.”

Darkus breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” But he didn’t have several hours. “When he wakes up, please tell him Darkus called, and it’s urgent.”

He put down the phone, his mind racing. With his father and the Knowledge both gone, he was left with nothing but his own memory, and his own instincts.

Bogna vanished upstairs, then returned with fresh towels and a tall pile of clothes wrapped in tissue paper. “Alan instruct me to go to Jermyn Street. He gave me your size. I hope it fit . . .”

Taken aback, Darkus received the pile of clothes in his arms; it was so tall it obscured his face. He took a few steps backward and lowered it onto the sofa, admiring it as if it were the best Christmas present he’d ever received, which, in a way, it was. He slowly unwrapped the tissue paper to find socks, undergarments, collared shirts, and a Donegal tweed jacket and trousers. Darkus stared in wonderment. He carefully removed his own soiled jacket and set it aside, then picked up the new one, admiring the cut, feeling the soft yarn of the cloth.

He slowly tried it on. It fit perfectly, and it felt like a dagger to the heart. He had misjudged his father—the one person he had ever really had anything in common with—and now he was gone; worse still, he was in grave jeopardy.

Darkus found his eyes full of tears, unable to reason with them, unable to contain them any longer.

“There, there . . . ,” Bogna said, then smothered him, patting him gently on the back. “I know Alan. Alan can take care of himself.” Unseen, Bogna shook her head, looking far less convinced of this.

Darkus wiped his eyes and turned back to the pile of clothes with a mixture of sadness and determination.

“I’ll go and get changed,” he said. “Can you be ready to leave in five minutes?”

“Leave? Leave where?” asked Bogna.

“I’ll explain on the way. I’m afraid you’re driving.”

“In Alan’s taxi-car?” She looked bewildered. “I haven’t drive since I am a teenager in
Klopoty-Ba´nki
.”

“Then we’ll just have to stay in the bus lane,” said Darkus.

Chapter 21

A Bad Trip

Clive slid into the Jag, put on his seat belt, and pressed the Start button, waiting for the engine to warm up. He liked his car; he felt safe in it, even though he had to admit it felt slightly less perfect since Knightley had hijacked it. It had been misused, ridden roughshod and generally mistreated. The brakes felt a tad softer, the ride less agreeable. There were some squeaks and rattles that Clive could have sworn weren’t there before the incident. What other torments Knightley might have subjected it to during its abduction didn’t bear thinking about—particularly the tow truck, the time spent in the impound yard, in the company of unfamiliars, old Ford Fiestas and who knew what; not to mention the sweaty men in oil-stained jumpsuits—hardly the seasoned Jaguar technicians Clive usually entrusted her to. And then, of course, there was the scratch on the rear quarter panel of the gorgeous midnight-blue paint. Darkus had blamed it on the jacket, but secretly Clive was still convinced it was the work of his next-door neighbor.

Clive realized, with reluctance, that he was falling out of love with his car, and deep down he knew he would have to replace it.

As luck would have it, today was a road-test day, easily the best perk of his job. The production offices of
Wheel Spin
, his widely watched (but poorly reviewed) cable TV program, had brought over a rare Italian supercar for him to review. The detailers would be waxing it to a showroom shine; the cockpit-cam would be set up to record his every impression and off-the-cuff remark as he put the car through its paces on the track. Clive didn’t have the ludicrous budget of certain other car-review programs, but he had an intimate knowledge of motor vehicles and the bubbly personality to back it up—which never ceased to win him compliments at the gas station or the local pub.

Clive idled on the driveway for another moment, and his thoughts turned to
The Code
, bringing on a warm tingle of positivity. He turned his heated seat down a notch, then accelerated away from the house in buoyant spirits. He hadn’t told Jackie about the book—she wouldn’t understand. But she’d notice the change in him soon enough; everyone would. He’d only read a few pages, but he could already feel the difference. Today was going to be a good day. His “thought transmitter” was fired up and ready to go. He was going to “be the change.”

Clive reached the production offices in record time, despite being held up by an infuriating old lady in a compact car, whom he dispatched with a stamp on the accelerator and a horn blast for good measure. Just because she was old didn’t mean she shouldn’t be expected to understand the rules of the road. Speed kills, but so do senior drivers.

After coffee and a Danish pastry in his trailer, Clive took an admiring walk around the multivented, cherry-red supercar that was waiting by the track. If anything could ease the pain of losing the Jag, this would.

Finding a moment to himself, Clive took his e-book reader from his jacket pocket and opened it up.

“Camera ready, Clive!” the director called over to him from the camera truck.

“Roger,” said Clive, and got into the supercar, pressing a button to lower the door into place.

The cockpit came to life with gauges and readouts, and Clive set aside the e-reader, tucking it into the glove compartment. He pulled on his driving gloves, checked his hair in the rearview mirror, glanced at the video camera mounted in the passenger seat and the second camera on the truck behind him.

“Showtime,” he said, and gunned the Italian horses to life. The engine roared and Clive’s eyes lit up, glowing with the reds and greens of the dashboard lights.

The director’s voice crackled out of the walkie-talkie attached to Clive’s belt. “Okay, Clive. We’re rolling.”

A red light blinked on the cockpit-cam in the passenger seat, indicating it was recording.

Clive eased the supercar out of the parking lot and coaxed it down an access road toward the deserted racetrack where the review would be conducted. He turned the wheel, guiding the beast past another camera crew located on a grassy shoulder alongside the main straight. The crew gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Clive returned the signal vigorously with both hands.

The track extended in either direction. A few carefully placed piles of tires were the only objects on the wide, endless horizon. Clive took up position, pointing straight down the center. The camera truck idled beside him, focused on the side of the car.

The director’s voice came through Clive’s walkie-talkie. “All right, Clive. Give it some welly.”

Clive grinned, pressing various buttons like a fighter pilot preparing for takeoff. He revved the engine, checked his hair one final time, then flicked the flappy paddle behind the steering wheel, shifting into gear, ready to launch himself and the vehicle down the track as one perfect machine. He turned to the passenger seat with an arched eyebrow. “What we have here . . . ,” he said to the camera mysteriously, “is something abso-lutely stu-pendous—”

The walkie-talkie erupted: “Wait!! Cut! Hold on, Clive—problem on camera two.”

“Oh, bum!” Clive blurted out, and took his foot off the accelerator. The revs descended and the engine sputtered unhappily. He pressed the walkie-talkie on his belt.

“How long, Derek?” he snapped.

“Take five, boss.”

“I was all ready to go,” complained Clive.

“Sorry, boss.”

Clive dropped his hands on the wheel in disappointment. Then he looked up again, as if hearing something in his head. He recited to himself: “Come on, Clive, positive thoughts, positive thoughts.” He forced a smile that looked like it might split him in half.

He glanced out the window at the crew busily attending to the camera truck, then glanced at the cockpit-cam in the passenger seat. The light was off: it wasn’t recording.

Clive quietly leaned over and opened the glove compartment. The e-reader flopped into his hand, its display showing
The Code
. He looked around again, then propped it in his lap and began to read.

Clive nodded eagerly, repeating to himself, “Only positive messages. No problem.” He suddenly thought about how annoyed he was with Knightley; how he’d have to sell the Jag, probably for a lot less than what he bought it for. Damn that man and his oddball son. If he didn’t love Jackie as much as he did, he’d be rid of both of them. Clive forced his attention back to the book and read on.

Clive paused. That was weird. He actually
felt
the thought run through his head. How very strange. This book really was the most unusual thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He shrugged and kept reading.

“Okay, Clive. Ready in two,” the director instructed him through the walkie-talkie. “Clive? Clive . . . ?”

But Clive was staring into the rearview mirror, deaf to the world. His eyes were wide, his brows arched in stark terror.

“Clive? Do you read me?” the director asked. “Clive?”

But Clive didn’t hear a word. He was staring at a large black supercar that was idling on the track right behind him. It was multivented with matte black bodywork, accented with carbon and even more aggressively styled than his. Steam appeared to be rising from its roof and fins.

The black car’s engine revved sharply. Clive’s eyes widened, his brows arching higher. It revved again. It was howling like something possessed.

Clive’s knuckles turned white, tightening around the steering wheel, then he furiously started pressing buttons, beginning the launch sequence. Both supercars sat poised, ready to pounce; both engines roaring, perfectly matched.

Clive stared into the rearview mirror, terrified and defiant. “Showtime!”

At the side of the track, one of the crew heard Clive gunning the engine, and called to the director, “Derek? Are we supposed to be rolling?”

The director turned around, confused. “I haven’t said we’re rolling.” He walked toward the red supercar, which was sitting completely alone on the track, revving wildly. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Clive? I said two minutes. Clive?” He went to tap on the window, when—

The ultra-wide tires spun to life, burning rubber, billowing smoke out of the wheel arches, and projected Clive and the car down the track.

The director threw himself out of the way, rolling to the ground, barking uncontrollably, “Clive?! What’s he doing?”

The crew quickly took up their positions. The director got to his feet, jumped into the passenger seat of the camera truck, and shouted, “Go after him!”

The camera truck revved up and peeled away, following the lone supercar down the track.

Inside the cockpit, Clive gripped the wheel, alternately glancing at the fast-approaching bend and checking the rearview mirror, which contained the black supercar lunging hot on his tail—like some kind of satanic beast, engulfed in steam, tongues of flame leaping out of the vents.

“You wanna play?” Clive shouted at the mirror, then turned the wheel, hurling his car into the bend, laughing maniacally.

In the camera truck, the director watched the monitor in confusion. The cockpit-cam was rolling, providing a live feed of Clive giggling and shouting hysterically. The director and his driver looked at each other, raising their eyebrows.