William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

Kitteredge looked up and smiled. “If only you’d stayed with the program,” he said. “What a credit you’d be to our profession today!”

Kitteredge counted the stanzas until he came to the right one. When he read it out loud, his voice quavered with excitement. “Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight.”

“The sword of light,” Low said. “Is it possible?”

“Is what possible?” Gus said.

“There are those who have speculated that Excalibur is the same weapon that was wielded by Nuada, first king of Tuatha de Danaan in Middle Irish mythology,” Kitteredge said. “Also known as the Sword of Light. Rossetti is telling us where it lies.”

“Where?” Shawn said.

They all turned to stare at him.

“Seriously,” Shawn said. “If that poem is giving us a hiding place, tell me where it is.”

“It’s a clue, not a map,” Low said. “It needs to be deciphered.”

“If he wanted this sword to be found, why go through all this nonsense?” Shawn said. “I mean-I understand there’s no reason anyone would ever write a poem or paint a picture except to send secret messages, but why not just write a letter and stick it in a safe deposit box?”

There was a long moment of silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Finally Kitteredge spoke.

“We are talking about one of the great treasures of the ages,” the professor said. “One with not only unimaginable monetary value but potentially a huge political impact. He needed to tailor his message so that only the right audience would understand it.”

“And that’s us?” Shawn said.

“It is now,” Low said. “Do you have a problem with this?”

“Just an issue of time management,” Shawn said.

“It’s still early, Mr. Spencer,” Low said. “We have plenty of time to discuss this.”

Shawn ambled over to the window and glanced up at the full moon. “Do we?” he said. “What time does the sun set around here?”

“This time of year, before six,” Low said.

“And the moon rise?” Shawn said.

“It varies,” Low said with rising impatience. “I believe tonight it was supposed to be around seven-thirty.”

“Okay, one more question,” Shawn said. “What time do the blue and red stars come out?”

Low started to answer, then stopped, confused.

“Blue and red stars?” he said.

“You know, the ones that are casting that lovely twinkling light on the ceiling,” Shawn said.

Gus looked up to see what Shawn was talking about. Blue and red lights flashed between the oak beams on the high white ceiling.

Before anyone could move, an amplified voice came from outside. “This is the police,” it said. “Langston Kitteredge, Shawn Spencer, and Burton Guster, come out with your hands raised.”

The tunnel was barely five feet high. Shawn and Gus had to keep their knees bent with every step to keep from hitting their heads on the ceiling. And for Kitteredge it was even worse. He’d be better off crawling, Gus thought as the professor slammed his forehead into another light fixture. If the bare bulbs hadn’t been caged in wire he would have smashed half of them and his scalp would have been shredded by glass.

Only Malko didn’t have any trouble maneuvering his way through the narrow tunnel, and he led them at a pace that suggested it had never occurred to him that anyone else would.

“What is this tunnel?” Gus whispered to Shawn.

“Apparently one of the benefits of having a bootlegger for a father,” Shawn said.

“Smugglers have long used tunnels for storing and transporting their goods,” Kitteredge said. “For example, in the small hamlet of Hayle in Cornwall, there is a seventeenth-century smugglers’ tunnel that runs for hundreds of yards. Of course, the seventeenth century was when smuggling really took off across Europe, thanks to huge taxes imposed by governments to pay for a series of financially crippling wars and-”

There was a dull thud as Kitteredge smacked his head into another light.

Gus wanted to turn back to see if Kitteredge was all right, but the tunnel was too narrow. “Professor?” Gus asked.

“I’m fine,” Kitteredge said. “Although perhaps I should focus on the present moment for a while.”

“There’s a plan,” Shawn said.

Gus had to agree. The present was the time to focus on. Partly because the past was becoming a blur in his sleep-addled and stress-befuddled brain, but mostly because the future was increasingly obvious. It involved arrest, incarceration, and, after some number of decades, an unmarked grave in a prison cemetery.

That had become evident once everyone realized that the blue and red lights on the dining room ceiling were the flashers from a squad of police cars. Almost immediately after the amplified voice had boomed through the house, there was a pounding on the front door. It was only fists, but Gus knew that was just an opening gambit. If Low didn’t open it fast, they’d be using a battering ram.

Low knew it, too. Grabbing Kitteredge by the arm, he led them quickly out of the dining room through a long, high-ceilinged hall, and then left into a smaller corridor. Behind them, Malko scurried to keep up. Halfway down the hallway, Low stopped and threw open a door.

“Get in,” Low said.

Gus and Shawn peered into the room. It was four feet wide and four feet deep. Mops and brooms hung on one wall, and the shelves on the other side were stocked with cleaning supplies.

“It’s a broom closet,” Shawn said. “Don’t get me wrong-it’s a perfectly nice broom closet, and if we had a couple extra hours to clean this place up, we’d be really happy to see it. But if you’re thinking this would be a good place to hide from the police, I’ve got to tell you I’ve been at lots of crime scenes, and they almost never forget to check in the closets.”

“Get in, fool,” Malko growled. He shoved Shawn and Gus through the door. Then he gave Kitteredge a respectful bow. “Please, Professor.”

Kitteredge looked dubious, but he stepped into the small space, taking up nearly every available square inch that didn’t already contain Shawn or Gus, and more than a couple that did.

“I’ll hold the police off as long as I can,” Low said apologetically. “You just run. Follow Malko. He knows the way.”

“Run?” Shawn said. “I can’t even lift my big toe.”

Malko growled dismissively and then forced his way into the closet. Before Gus or Shawn could shove him out again, Low slammed the door. After a second there was a dreadful, final click. That could mean only one thing: Low had locked the door. There was no way out.

Claustrophobia had never been one of Gus’ primary fears. Not that he wasn’t uncomfortable in tight spaces; it was just that there always seemed to be something better to be frightened of.

But now, in this tiny coffin, gasping for a breath that hadn’t already been exhaled by one of the others, Gus suddenly realized that there was nothing more terrifying than the prospect of being buried alive. And if the burial happened not to be under six feet of dirt but pressed up against six feet plus of art history professor’s tweed, it was still the most horrible fate imaginable.

At least it was until he felt something squirming against his legs. What kind of disgusting creatures had been breeding here in the eternal blackness? Gus had a vision of hairless creatures, half rat and half slug, with white blanks where eyes should be, reaching out with their scaly talons to feel their way through the world-and through Gus’ flesh, if it got in their way.

Until he heard Malko’s angry whisper. “Get out of the way, you idiot. I’ve got to get past you.”