The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (32 page)

He stared at me and slowed some on the gum.

I said, “That's why you're here, isn't it? Give me Mogart and it's yours.”

Mike thought about it. “How do I know you won't double-cross me?”

“I guess you don't. But like Mr. Mogart told me, you don't have a choice.”

I stepped back, but kept the Sword pointed toward his neck. “Give me your gun.”

He reached into the pocket of his Windbreaker and held out the gun, his finger hooked around the trigger guard. I took it from him and slipped it into my pocket.

“Anything else?” he asked. He acted like he was trying hard not to laugh.

“No,” I said. Then I thought of something. “Yes. What does OIPEP stand for?”

“ ‘Only Idiots Pursue Extraordinary Persons.' ” He laughed in spite of himself and smacked his gum. “Okay? Are we done now?”

“One more thing,” I said. I held out my hand. “The gum.”

He started to laugh again but saw I was dead serious. He took out the gum and dropped it into my hand. When he did that, about half his personality evaporated. I tossed it into the shadows.

He turned to his left and I followed him along the back wall of the cave. The walls were smooth and slightly concave. He stopped at a fissure in the wall near the south corner. It was barely the width of one person, running from the floor to the ceiling.

“You first,” I said.

As we slipped into the opening, the sea sound became softer, and the drip of water and the wailing of Merlin a little louder. The floor here was rough, littered with stones and angled downward slightly. The path twisted right, then back left, then dropped steeply, and I had to press my free hand against the jagged wall to keep my balance. We eased our way down very slowly. Loose rocks and jutting outcrops as sharp as knives slowed our way down.

Gradually the walls drew back and the floor leveled and became smooth. A circle of light glowed in the distance. When we were about a hundred yards from the opening, Mike turned and whispered urgently, “Al, you gotta give my gun back.”

“Why?”

“He's gonna think I've stiffed him. You've seen what he does to people who stiff him.”

I thought about it. “Okay,” I said. I took the gun from my pocket and hit him in the head as hard as I could with the grip.

He fell straight down. I slipped the gun back into my pocket, stepped over him, and walked the final hundred yards to the portal, alone.

48

I stood at the entrance to a huge cavern whose walls and ceiling were lost in vast, arching shadows. The floor was as smooth and as dark as a frozen pond. My footfalls echoed against the unseen walls as I walked slowly across the floor. There was no other sound and nobody in sight. I walked holding the Sword in front of me, thinking maybe there was another passage somewhere and I'd knocked out Mike too soon. Then I heard Mogart's voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

“Mr. Kropp. You never cease to surprise me.”

I stopped. I slowly pulled the gun out of my pocket and held it loosely in my left hand, more to comfort myself than anything else.

“To have come this far, with so little experience and even less intelligence . . . I salute you, sir.”

“Where's Natalia?” My voice sounded small and tinny, almost like a little kid's.

“Here.”

His voice sounded right by my ear. I whirled around and saw them coming toward me, Natalia in front of him. He held the back of her neck with his left hand. In his right he held a tapered dagger.

They stopped about twenty feet away and Mogart smiled.

“I'm glad to see you have taken care of Mr. Arnold,” he said, nodding toward the gun. “I never cared for that man.”

Natalia's eyes were dry, but very red; she must have been crying. Her dark hair was tangled around her face and there was a large bruise near the hairline.

“I'm sorry,” I told her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, cutting her eyes at Mogart. I said, “I brought the Sword, Mr. Mogart. Let her go.”

“First the gun, yes? It's hardly necessary, Mr. Kropp, and you might make a terrible mistake. You might strike the wrong person.”

I thought about it. If I refused, he might stab Natalia before I had a chance to get off a shot, a shot that would probably miss. But I'd still have the Sword and he knew if he killed her there'd be no reason for me to let him live. But that didn't really matter to me, since Natalia would be dead.

I threw the gun and it slid across the smooth floor into the shadows.

“Very good,” Mogart said. “Now, the Sword, please.”

“Let her go first.”

He laughed. “My, how bold we've become! But boldness, Mr. Kropp, can never be a substitute for intelligence.”

The dagger pressed into Natalia's side. Her eyes went wide and she cried out, “Kropp!”

Mogart said, “Decide now, Alfred Kropp. Throw down the Sword or watch her die.”

Natalia was just one person and, like Mike said, what was one person when the whole world was at stake? If I refused to give him the Sword he'd kill Natalia; if I gave him the Sword he would probably kill her anyway and my sacred vow—and the only vow I ever made—would be broken.

I knew whatever decision I made would probably turn out to be wrong, as wrong as every decision I had made since this whole thing started. I kept screwing up and then just kept coming back for more. Maybe to fix it I needed to decide what the best thing to do was, and then do the opposite.

Looking at Mogart, I realized the plain truth was that he wasn't my greatest enemy. My greatest enemy was the fifteen-year-old homeless loser holding the Sword of Kings.

“Choose, Mr. Kropp,” Mogart said softly.

I chose.

I tossed the Sword toward him. It clattered to the ground about halfway between us. I expected him to throw Natalia to the floor and dive on the Sword, but he didn't move. He wasn't even looking at the Sword; he was looking at me and I got that sinking feeling I had in Uncle Farrell's apartment, right before Mogart rammed the Sword into his body.

“Don't, Mr. Mogart,” I pleaded. “You don't need to do that now. Don't hurt her, please.”

“Oh, Mr. Kropp,” Mogart answered. “After all that has happened, have you learned so little?”

And with that he plunged the dagger into Natalia's side.

49

She fell without a sound. I froze for a second, watching her fall, before lunging for the Sword, but I was too late. Mogart dived on it first, rolling out of the way as I launched myself at him.

I scrambled to my feet and pulled the black sword from my belt, meaning to switch it to my right hand, but Mogart was on me too fast, the Sword of Kings whistling toward my head.

I lifted my blade just in time and then cried out when Excalibur smashed against it with a ringing crash. The force of it almost snapped my wrist. I stepped back, flailing my sword in the air as Mogart, almost leisurely, took swings at me. He smiled, enjoying himself, and he was saying things like, “Good, Mr. Kropp! Excellent! Fine parry, sir! On the balls of your feet, step lightly and keep your sword up!”

He kept advancing and I kept backing up. He came from the right, then the left, then the right again, very fast, and finally the force of a blow slung my arm away so hard, I heard the joint in my shoulder pop.

His free hand caught the wrist of my blade hand, and his grip was cold and hard. I felt the tip of Excalibur pressing under my chin. Mogart brought his face very close to mine and he whispered, “There is one thing that has always troubled me about you, Alfred Kropp: Why do you persist? I kill your uncle, and you join Bennacio. I kill Bennacio, and you strike out on your own. I kill Natalia, and still you fight. So tell me, boy, tell me why you persist.”

“I . . . I made a vow . . .” I stammered.

He cocked his head to one side, and his eyes twinkled as he started to smile.

“A vow! Alfred Kropp has made a vow!” He laughed harshly. “To Lord Bennacio, no doubt.”

“No,” I answered. “To heaven.”

And I brought my knee up into his crotch as hard as I could. I ripped my blade arm free and stepped back as he went down to the stone floor. This was it! Go, Kropp, while he's down—take him out with your sword! But something stopped me. Instead of killing him, I just stood there, gulping air, waiting for him to stand up.

“It isn't yours, Mr. Mogart,” I said. “Don't you see? It isn't anybody's.”

Mogart stood up, his face distorted by pain and something else, not anger exactly, but something like anger and sadness mixed together, like a pouty little boy who's just learned he can't have his favorite candy.

“Who are you?” he gasped. “Who are you, Alfred Kropp? How is it that I find you at every turn, like a fat stone in my path, blocking my way?” With each question, he took a step toward me. And with each step he took forward, I took one backward.

“Why did Bennacio come to you after Samson's fall?” Step. “And bring you here?” Step. “Why did he demand the vow of you?” Step.
“Who are you, Alfred Kropp?”

“I'm Bernard Samson's son and the heir to Lancelot.”

He stopped. He looked as if I had slapped him. Then all the pain and sadness drained out of his face and left nothing but anger.