Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (27 page)

He reached the Jag and opened the trunk, realizing instantly that there was no way he was going to fit it all in. He also realized with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t even remembered to get the thingy for the trimmer.

At that moment, a medium-sized man in a dark suit stepped out of a chauffeur-driven car that was idling nearby. Unbeknownst to Clive, the car had been following him all morning.

Morton Underwood approached him with a smile, fixing him with the magnified stare of his glasses. “Excuse me. Aren’t you C-Clive Palmer?”

“The very same,” said Clive proudly. Afterward he would have trouble remembering anything about this man. He would only have a vague recollection of a pair of saucerlike eyes hovering before him.

“I w-wonder . . . ,” Underwood began. “Do you know
The Code
?”

“The Code?” repeated Clive.

“Y-yes. Do you
know . . . The Code
?” Underwood repeated again, pronouncing each word clearly. His voice was flat and mellifluous, except for that unfortunate stutter.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” said Clive, realizing this must have something to do with the 0845 number that he’d dialed. “Wow. Your customer service is . . . un-believable.”

“And do you know the
meaning of fear
?” said Underwood, trying carefully to articulate each word.

Almost at once, Clive’s eyes glazed over. “
Yes
. . . yes, I do.”

“G-good,” said Underwood, trying to control his stutter. But fortunately for him, the hard work was done. “Why don’t you close the trunk and follow me?”

“Fan-tastic,” said Clive, and closed the trunk, leaving the cart full of household goods and following the man to his chauffeur-driven car.

Underwood opened the door for Clive, then joined him in the backseat. Although Clive’s eyelids felt unnaturally heavy, he attempted to examine the car, but was unable to identify the make or model. It was as though his usual powers of perception were muted. The black leather and tinted windows gave the interior a crypt-like quality.

“Nice car,” said Clive in a monotone.

“Thank you,” replied Underwood. His words followed each other in a sort of purr: “It was very fortunate that you c-contacted us. You see, you’re in a unique position to help us.”

“I am?” said Clive, raising a heavy eyelid, still feeling as if he were falling from a great height into a dark, bottomless pit.

“Indeed you are,” Underwood continued. “Now, I want you to do something for me.”

“Okay,” answered Clive without question.

“I’d like you to murder your stepson, Darkus Knightley.”

“Really?” asked Clive casually. “I mean, I know he can misbehave occasionally, but does he deserve that?”

“Yes, Clive. I’m afraid he does.”

“Okay.”

“Then you’ll do as I ask?”

“Of course.”

“G-good.”

A few moments later, the car door opened and Clive stepped out. As he walked back to the Jag, he quickly lost all recollection that the conversation had ever happened.

He got behind the wheel, forgetting any memory of the shopping cart or why he was even there in the first place. He started the car and backed up, scratching one entire side of the Jag against a lamppost, then accelerated away, leaving the shopping cart to roll aimlessly across the parking lot.

Chapter 25

The Missing Link

Jackie anxiously watched the plate of triangular-shaped sandwiches that sat untouched on the kitchen table. She had just witnessed a conversation about code-breaking that was more in keeping with an episode from a TV forensics drama than something discussed between two thirteen-year-olds. The odd thing was just how much Darkus resembled Alan and Tilly resembled his late assistant, Carol.

Tilly slid the scrap of paper with the Combination on it back to Darkus, like a chess player moving a piece across the board.

“The series of characters is too short to infer a general rule,” she said.

“That’s what I thought,” he replied. “And none of the usual cipher keys apply. Dad must have been grasping at fragments of memories, pieces of the puzzle that were left buried deep in his subconscious.”

“So we’re back to square one.”

“It would appear so.”

“Perhaps a sandwich would help?” suggested Jackie. They both ignored her but she didn’t seem to mind.

Tilly continued to Darkus: “If the Combination are as powerful as your dad says they are . . . If they’re in fact
evil—
I’m talking
pure evil
—well, that changes things, doesn’t it? In that case, a rational solution won’t be enough. Even if we find them, we won’t have a hope of defeating them.”

“Everything they’ve done so far has been entirely rational,” argued Darkus. “Warped, but rational. Regardless of what Dad believes, I’ve seen no evidence of the supernatural.”

Jackie took advantage of the ensuing silence to make a point of her own: “Remember, evil doesn’t exist unless you believe in it,” she suggested. “If you don’t believe in it, it has no power.” She took a sip of her tea and mulled it over.

Tilly shrugged then nodded, finding her and her stepmom were unexpectedly in agreement for the first time ever.

“I don’t know if that’s going to help, Mom,” said Darkus.

Tilly looked out the kitchen window and frowned, seeing the Jag arrive. “Great . . . Dad’s home.”

“Look,” said Jackie, “it hasn’t escaped my attention that neither of you are exactly over the moon about Clive and me . . . and the family situation we find ourselves in.”

Neither Darkus nor Tilly answered—their silence speaking volumes.

Jackie turned to Tilly. “But your father’s clearly having a hard time at the moment. He’s . . . Well, he’s just not himself. So I hope you’ll try to be understanding.”

“Aren’t I always?” said Tilly, and nodded to the scrap of paper in front of Darkus. “Better put that away before the doofus starts asking questions.”

“Good idea,” replied Darkus.

Outside the house, Bogna examined Clive with skeptical curiosity mixed with outright animosity. Clive parked on the street, colliding with a recycling bin, then got out of the Jag and walked up the driveway. The presence of the large Polish lady and the black Fairway cab parked in his spot would usually have prompted an outburst of some kind, but on this particu­lar day he only raised his eyebrows with distaste and continued up to the house.

“Jackie? I’m home!” he said cheerfully.

He marched through the door, looking up the staircase, then glancing into the living room. “Is that Alan’s car outside? Is Darkus back?” he called out. “Jax?”

“We’re in here.” Her voice appeared from the kitchen.

Clive’s face registered an odd combination of pleasure and something darker and more determined. His eyes moved without blinking, permanently staring into the middle distance. He checked his thatch of hair in the hallway mirror, then followed his wife’s voice, which sounded strangely far away.

Clive wandered through the house, still experiencing a heaviness in the brows that slackened his entire face into a vacant frown. When he entered the kitchen, Tilly instinctively retreated away from him, expecting a barrage of anger and disbelief. What she got instead was completely unexpected.

“Hello, Tilly,” he said casually. “Didn’t feel like school?”

“Er . . . ,” she stammered, certain it must be a trick question. “Yeah. Well, I’m just helping Darkus with something.”

Jackie started cleaning up the kitchen, clattering plates to break the awkward silence. “How was Homebase?” she asked tightly, barely able to conceal her annoyance.

“Phen-omenal,” responded Clive. “And, Darkus . . . ,” he continued, turning to his stepson with a furrowed brow and a strangely intense expression. “How are
you
?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, that’s very good to hear,” said Clive, his left eye twitching as he attempted a smile. “Very good
indeeed
.” His face looked like it was under anesthetic. The jaw muscles contorted but the smile failed to transpire.

Darkus noticed a small ball of spittle on the corner of Clive’s lower lip. It appeared to be foaming like an aspirin dissolving in water. Strangely fascinated, Darkus couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“Something’s wrong,” Tilly whispered across the kitchen table. Clive didn’t even hear her because his gaze was still fixed on Darkus.

“Clive?” said Jackie. “Can I have a word in private?”

“Hut!” Clive snapped, holding up his hand to demand silence. Jackie’s head spun, now supremely annoyed. Clive continued: “First me and Darkus are going to have a little talk. Upstairs.”

“We are?” asked Darkus, finding Clive more mesmerizing than he ever imagined possible.

“A little talk. Man to man,” said Clive, gently but firmly moving his stepson’s chair back from the table.

Darkus stood up, not wishing to make a scene.

“What’s all this about, Clive?” asked Jackie.

“I’ll explain later,” he said enigmatically, and guided Darkus toward the door.

As Darkus followed orders, Tilly got to her feet, sensing something was most definitely wrong, but not having the evidence to support it.

Darkus shrugged and walked past the fridge, noticing a Post-it note stuck to the door among the various ornamental magnets and family photos. The Post-it read:

The writing was Clive’s.

Darkus’s nostrils flared, then he shook off the idea. Not Clive. It was too implausible.

And yet, Clive clearly required self-help, and clearly suffered from attention deficit disorder. And the Combination would certainly have been very grateful to receive his call.

It was not implausible. It was suddenly very
plausible
.

Now that they were out of sight, Clive shoved him a little harder, nudging him up the staircase to the upper floor.

“Where are we going?” said Darkus.

“None of your beeswax,” Clive replied.

Darkus decided it was not in his best interest to be left alone with Clive. If necessary, he would have to make a scene. He turned back on the stairs and opened his mouth to shout out, just as—

The doorbell rang, drowning out his cry.

“I’ll get it!” said Jackie.

Clive reacted quickly, clamping a large, sweaty hand over Darkus’s face and maneuvering him onto the landing.

“Wh—” Darkus shouted through the hand, feeling his feet being dragged across the carpet. “What’re you doing?”

“If you could just be quiet, that would be fan-tastic.”

Darkus struggled, trying to get a grip on the tracksuit, but Clive held him in a massive bear hug.

In the entrance hall, Jackie went to the door and opened it to find a familiar figure on the doorstep.

“Inspector Draycott,” she said impatiently.

“Chief
Inspector
Draycott
,
” he reminded her.

“What can I do for you?”

“Funny. I was just in the neighborhood, and I couldn’t help but notice Alan’s car in the driveway—”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been in the neighborhood a lot lately,” she replied. “I’ve seen you through the kitchen window. If it’s Alan you’re after, I’m afraid he’s not here.”

Draycott glanced over his shoulder at Bogna, who was still standing guard in the front garden. “Is that right?”

“Yup.”

“I can understand your reluctance to talk to me,” he continued, “but I assure you I’m only performing my civic duty.” He stroked his whiskers furtively. “If you’d just satisfy my curiosity about the rather large officer who relieved me of duty on my last visit . . .”

One floor above, Clive manhandled Darkus past his bedroom, giving a view of the street with Draycott’s police car parked outside, containing two more officers. Clive’s eyes went wide at the sight of it, and he steered Darkus more aggressively toward the bathroom.

Darkus complied, realizing his only chance of escape was to catch Clive off guard, when he least expected it. The catastrophizer went into overdrive, its cogs and gears engaging, churning out possible scenarios. The question was: if they’d gotten to Clive, what had they instructed him to do?