The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (18 page)

The shell went through the window and landed in the gas tank of the Suzuki Hayabusa. I felt the heat of the fireball against my face, and the concussion from the blast shook the Ferrari so hard, Bennacio had to drop the shotgun onto my lap and grab the steering wheel with both hands to keep us from spinning out of control.

“I think I'm going to be sick!” I shouted against the howling wind.

He didn't say anything. He was smiling, and I don't think it was because I told him I was going to be sick.

23

Bennacio slowed to a more comfortable eighty, but the wind was still blowing fiercely in my face, so I scrunched down in the seat. I covered my eyes and wondered when the reinforcements would arrive.

I don't know how long I sat there like that, shivering in the cold blasts of air, my knees actually knocking together and my teeth chattering in my head, but it seemed like a very long time. Then I heard the motor winding down and the wind dwindling. I took my hand away and saw Bennacio was pulling into the emergency lane. A tractor-trailer was coming up fast behind us, laying on its horn, and Bennacio gave the trucker a friendly little wave as he rumbled past.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“We're out of gasoline,” he answered as the car slowly rolled to a stop.

“You're kidding, right?”

“I am not. Come, Kropp, we must walk now.”

“Walk?”

“We have no choice.”

“You keep saying that. How come we never have a choice?”

“Sometimes it is easier not to have one.”

We got out of the car and stood for a moment looking at it. It didn't look cool anymore. I reached through the window and grabbed the shotgun.

“No, leave it, Kropp.”

I sighed and dropped it back onto the seat.

“Lemme ask you something, Bennacio. What's with the swords and daggers and bows and arrows and medieval stuff like that? Aren't you knights allowed to carry guns?”

“There's nothing that prohibits us.”

“Then why don't you?”

“It is mostly a matter of pride. You may think otherwise, but guns are far more barbaric than swords. There is no elegance to a firearm, Alfred.”

He smiled. “Besides, our way is more fun.”

We started to walk. We hadn't gone very far, maybe a quarter of a mile, when I stopped walking. Bennacio, his head bowed, deep in thought, kept walking for several yards before noticing I wasn't beside him. He stopped and watched as I sat down and wrapped my arms around my knees.

It had turned into a nice day, with just a few wisps of cloud and a light breeze from the south. I lifted my face to the sun. Bennacio came back to me and sat down.

“I'll be honest with you, Bennacio. I'm pretty shaken up right now. I know this sort of thing must be normal for a knight, but what happened back there freaked me out a little. No. Not a little. A lot. You go to the movies and you watch these guys in car chases and shoot-outs and you think, hey, I could do that. I mean, you sit there in the dark theater and you kind of wish it was you up there taking out the bad guys. But it isn't like that in real life, though this whole thing is starting to feel more like a movie than real life—which is weird, because I'm starting to miss my real life, even though it sucked. I'm not sure how much farther I can go.”

“I see.” He sighed. There was a sad look in his eyes. “Unfortunately, we cannot stay here long, Alfred. The police will be here soon—and perhaps worse.”

“More AODs?”

“AODs?”

“Agents of darkness.”

He smiled. “Yes. AODs. Quite so.”

“I don't want to hold you up, Bennacio. You've got an important job to do—saving the world and everything, and it's kind of selfish of me to tag along. Especially when I'm not even sure I
want
to be tagging along.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit, Alfred. Without you, I would not have survived this morning.”

He obviously said it to make me feel better, but I didn't think he didn't believe it.

“Broadway,” he said suddenly.

“Huh?”

He was smiling. “You asked what kind of music I like. I love show tunes.”

I don't know why, but I laughed out loud.

“I am particularly fond of Lerner and Loewe.
Camelot
. Have you heard of it?” He sang softly. “ ‘In short there's simply not/A more congenial spot/For happy-ever-aftering than here in/Camelot!' Predictable, I know.”

I cracked up. It helped. “We gotta get a ride somehow, Bennacio,” I said after I caught my breath. “We can't walk the whole way to Halifax.”

Bennacio stood up. “No, we cannot. Get up, Kropp, and stand with your hands by your sides.”

He was staring down the road, and I stood up and looked with him. I heard the siren before I saw the car and the flashing lights.

“Great,” I said. “Cops.”

The patrol car pulled into the emergency lane, cut the siren, but left the blue-and-reds spinning. The patrolman stepped out of the car, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“Get on your knees with your hands behind your head!” he shouted at us. “Now!”

“Do as he says,” Bennacio said quietly, and we kneeled on the pavement and I laced my fingers behind my head. The patrolman's shoes went
scrape-scrape
against the concrete as he came toward us.

“You fellows know anything about what happened back there?” he asked.

“We ran out of gas,” Bennacio said.

“Looks like you did more than that,” the cop said. He stopped a couple of feet from Bennacio, his gun drawn now and aimed at Bennacio's high forehead.

“I have a gun,” Bennacio said calmly, as if he were remarking on the weather. “Behind my back.”

“Don't move!” the cop said, and he wet his lips. He wasn't much older than me, maybe nineteen or twenty, looking kind of silly in his tall brown hat, like a kid playing dress-up. He crouched down, the gun's muzzle about four inches from Bennacio's nose, and reached around his back to find the weapon that wasn't there.

Bennacio's right hand shot straight up, his index and middle finger extended from his fist, into the kid's neck. He fell straight down and lay still.

“You killed him,” I said. “Jeez, Bennacio!”

“He is not dead,” Bennacio said. “Come, Alfred.”

He was already on his feet and walking rapidly toward the patrol car.

“We're taking his car?”

“Yes.”

“Because we've got no choice.”

“Yes.”

“I want to go home, Bennacio.”

He turned at the door. “What home, Alfred?”

He wasn't trying to be mean. He just didn't know what I meant by “home.” What did I mean by “home”? The Tuttles'? Knoxville? He didn't know and I sure didn't know. I had no real home anymore.

I got in the car.

24

He cut the spinning red and blue lights, hit the gas pedal, and the Crown Victoria was soon up to 105. Cars pulled out of our way as we approached because we were obviously on some pretty important police business. I rode shotgun, next to the cop's actual shotgun, and thought if we were attacked again it was all up to me because we were out of arrows and something like a shotgun wasn't elegant enough for Bennacio.

We were in the Wyoming Valley, and to my right I could see the Poconos rising. I had never been on a road trip before, if you didn't count the trips to Florida with my mom, which you couldn't count, since that was a family thing. But you really couldn't count this as a road trip either, since the one thing all road trips have in common is they're supposed to be fun.

Bennacio turned on the scanner and listened to the chatter, but there wasn't anything about a stolen cruiser—not yet, anyway, though we both knew it wouldn't be long.

“What now?” I asked.

“We must find another means of transportation.”

“Lemme guess,” I said. “White stallions?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a very fast cat,” he said. He turned on the flashing red-and-blues. The car directly in front of us changed into the right lane and Bennacio followed it, coming up close on his bumper.

“A Jaguar,” I said. “Fast cat, I get it, very funny, but how is carjacking part of the code of chivalry?”

He didn't answer, but reached for the button that operated the siren.

“Hey, can I?” I asked.

“If you wish.”

I hit the button, the siren wailed, and Bennacio proceeded to flash his headlights at the Jaguar. It eased into the emergency lane. Bennacio stopped about ten yards behind it. Then he unhooked the shotgun from its holder and pressed it into my hand.

“I thought these were barbaric.”

“Just so, but you are not a knight.”

“I'm not shooting anyone, Bennacio.”

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin leather-bound folder. A checkbook. On the face of the top check, embossed in gold letters, were the words “Samson Industries.” He flipped it open and signed a blank check.

“To answer your question: No, we do not steal; we do not ‘jack cars,' but sometimes there are those who refuse to sell. Come, Kropp.”