The Cross of Sins (31 page)

"What is it?" Sister Margarita asked. "Are you all right?"

Luca reached to the back of the shelf and pulled out a frayed old basket. There was a baby's blanket in it, and lying beside that was something he had never seen before in his life, or at least could not recall.

It was a small knitted child's toy.

A clown.

"Valentino?" Luca whispered, eyes wide.

Without realizing it, he touched his chest, and for the first time in his life, he couldn't feel his crucifix hanging there.

"Luca? Are you all right?"

Luca didn't answer straight away.

For a moment, he didn't even hear Sister Margarita say his name.

XXI

Munich, Germany

"You must walk a little more slowly," the Professor said. "I'm an old man, and I've been through something of an adventure lately."

"Yes," said Ernst, slowing his stride. "You've been most difficult to track down. And you know me. I never have any trouble finding things."

Herr Ernst Schroder was right. He was a man of many talents, but most of all, he could track down almost anything in the world, or at the very least, he was best place to start. From the rarest North Australian pearls to the whereabouts of the Heir to the British Throne after a friend's bachelor party, Herr Schroder had a knack. Or rather, he was very, very well-connected.

It was one of these contacts—currently a resident of a Siberian prison, no less—who had hired Herr Schroder to track down Professor Fathom, which he had finally managed.

They met here, in the Botanical Gardens on the grounds of the Nymphenburg Palace in Munich.

"Despite your rather colorful history together, he requests the pleasure of your company," Herr Schroder said as they strolled peacefully past a group of school children, smelling the flowers.

"Who?"

"Caro Sholtez."

The Professor stopped. It was a name he hadn't heard for a very long time. Caro Sholtez. No Mister or Monsieur or Signor or Herr. That's because nobody knew what nationality he was, including Sholtez himself. Or so he claimed.

Caro Sholtez was an enigma.

He was also one of the most dangerous men on the planet.

The Professor raised one eyebrow. "I don't often use the words
pleasure
and
Siberia
in the same context."

"According to Sholtez, he won't be in Siberia much longer."

"He's been imprisoned for life."

Herr Schroder smiled and shrugged. "I'm just the messenger."

"Of course," the Professor nodded. If nothing else, Professor Fathom and Herr Schroder had the utmost respect for a civil relationship. It would have been considered by many to be a friendship even, only Ernst Schroder made it his business not to have any friends.

The Professor sniffed at the air. "Ah, the blue cornflower," he smiled, turning to the left. "It's my favorite. Shall we?"

Herr Schroder looked to the left and saw a magnificent bank of blue cornflowers in full bloom. "I thought blue cornflowers had no scent."

The Professor smiled. "They don't—unless you're blind."

XXII

New York City, New York

Jake sat in the front seat of the cab, and when the driver asked him for the third time, "Left or right?" Jake still didn't respond. He didn't even hear him.

A car pulled up behind them and blared its horn.

The driver shouted one last time, "Sir, left or right?"

At the sound of the cab driver's frustrated voice Jake jolted back to life. "Left."

He tried to stay focused for the rest of the journey through Brooklyn, but his thoughts always strayed whenever he made this trip, as though the past was trying to pull him back, as though it had vowed to never let him forget what he had done. Soon however the cab pulled up outside the rehabilitation center.

"How are you, Jake?" asked the woman rising from her desk, as the duty nurse escorted him inside Mrs. Beattie's small office.

Jake leaned across the desk, past a vase of white lilies, kissed Mrs. Beattie on the cheek, and then took a seat. "I'm doing okay. How are you, Mrs. Beattie?"

"Jake, after fifteen years I think you can call me Helen."

He smiled, a little embarrassed and nodded. "I have something for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. A check for one hundred thousand dollars. The money that Pierre Perron had deposited into his account before his journey to Kahna Toga.

He slid it across the desk to Helen now. "I was expecting more but things went a little pear-shaped."

Helen picked up the check and shook her head. "Jake, this kind of donation to the clinic is too much. I know you can't afford this! I'm sorry but I can't—"

But Jake just shook his head and plucked one of the lilies from the vase. "Consider it payment. For a flower."

The cemetery was cold. It was always cold. Jake was convinced it was God's way. To make happy places warm and sunny. And make sad places cold and gray.

He put his backpack down on the ground and knelt beside the grave.

The grave of Sarah Stone.

Died twenty-four years of age.

When Jake was only thirteen-years-old.

He laid the white lily from Helen's office at the foot of the gravestone now. God, even his tears felt cold as they raced down his cheeks.

Thankfully, there were only two tears.

He refused to let any more go.

"Hey Sis. Sorry it's been so long. I've been kinda busy. Met some people who, I dunno, I kinda like. For once. Don't laugh; I know you're laughin' at me up there. I know for sure
you'd
like 'em. You always saw the best in people. You were always the strong one. The smart one."

He knew he was tired, but he must have been even more exhausted than he realized, for another three, four, five tears slid down his face. Jake pushed them away angrily with the back of his hand. "Shit, I'm sorry, I gotta go. I gotta go check on Sam."

He stood quickly, grabbed his backpack and started walking away. He turned back on last time.

"I'm sorry, Sarah."

Eighteen-year-old Sam staggered into the freight elevator, not having slept for three days. Everyone thought he was wired, and God knows Jake was always on his back about being high, but the fact was, Sam had never taken a drug in his life. The fact was he simply hated sleep. When you live on the streets for virtually your entire life, you go to sleep every night never knowing if you're going to open your eyes again the next day.

Which is why on the odd occasion he
did
actually sleep, he only ever slept at Jake's.

Sam loved Jake to death, he was the only one who looked out for him, but Jake was never around to talk to. And when he was around, sometimes he was so protective that the two ended up fighting.

And Sam ended up on the streets yet again.

But he knew today that Jake wasn't home, he had found the note he'd left days ago.

Sam's vision blurred now as he unlocked the door and stumbled into Jake's apartment. He was so tired, so hungry, he could barely walk. He headed for his mattress on the floor, but then thought twice about it. His head was spinning, but he hadn't had a shower in three days. And he knew he stank.

Sam kicked off his sneakers and stripped off his T-shirt, his jeans.

He stumbled naked through the curtain to the bathroom, pulled open the shower curtain, and turned on the faucet.

Steam billowed.

Sam stepped under the water, and the calm instantly overwhelmed him.

He closed his eyes, and perhaps for a second, while standing in the shower, he fell asleep.

Even so, he suddenly sensed he wasn't alone.

Sam's eyes shot open in alarm.

He grabbed the shower curtain and ripped it aside, and took in a short sharp breath as he saw standing there in front of him a large black stranger.

The man smiled and spoke in a deep, thick French-Algerian accent. "My name is Ra. Monsieur Perron sent me. Tell Mr. Stone, there is an important message on his pillow."

And with that, the man raised a small straight pipe to his lips and blew into it as hard as he could.

Sam grunted as a dart hit him straight in the chest.

That's when his knees buckled, through exhaustion and shock more than anything else, and he slipped into the tub, tearing the shower curtain down on top of him.

On the street below, Jake got out of the cab, slung his backpack over his shoulder and entered the building. He started climbing the stairs to his apartment when he heard the clunk and rattle of the freight elevator descending. It passed down the middle of the stairwell as Jake ascended the stairs, and through the glass panels of the elevator, Jake could see a large black man inside—staring straight back at him.

Something told Jake to get upstairs as fast as he could.

The door to his apartment was open.

"Sam!"

He heard the shower running. He dropped his bag and raced across the warehouse floor, shoving aside the bathroom curtain to see Sam unconscious in the tub, the shower curtain pulled down over him and water splashing everywhere.

Jake dropped beside the tub, turned off the shower and scooped Sam up in his arms.

"Sam! Can you hear me?"

Sam's eyes blinked open. He looked around, stunned and dazed, and then pointed to his chest.

"God!" Jake whispered, plucking the dart out as soon as he saw it.

"There was a guy," Sam gasped and panted in shock. "I never saw him before in my life. He said he left you a message. A message from some guy I never heard of. I swear to you Jake, I got no idea who he was."

"It's okay. Stay here. I'll get you a blanket."

He found a blanket. Wrapped Sam up in it. "You said this guy left a message?"

"Your pillow. It's on your pillow."

Jake lifted Sam out of the bath, laid him on the dry floor and rushed over to his mattress. There was an envelope on his pillow. He swooped down and ripped it open.

He immediately recognized the insignia at the top of the page.

Dear Mr. Stone,

It seems our dealings have reached terrifying new heights. You want your little friend to live, and I want a new treasure to replace the mansion you sent to the bottom of the Grand Canal as well as the finger I've lost! Your precious Sam has a rare poison called Deldah-sha running through his veins. It is slow and lethal. He will die in precisely 120 hours, roughly five days, unless of course he receives the antidote, the only known bottle of which is in my possession. It is something I will happily trade for one thing: the location of the Lost Pyramid of Imhotep.

Yours truly, P. Perron

XXIII

Palermo, Sicily

The surgeons stared at each other and said in Italian:

"Is that what I think it is?"

"It's a flare, embedded in his stomach. And there's another one, here, in his side. We assume that's what's caused the third degree burns on his face and body."

The head surgeon shook his head in disbelief at the heart-rate monitor. "This man shouldn't be alive. Who brought him in?"