Dr. Jenkins blinked, picked up the crumpled sheet, and began to read. Her eyes grew wide behind her glasses. “This … this can’t be real.”
“You’d better just hope not.”
Suddenly, from behind Clare and Al a pair of uniformed policemen appeared and stalked past them into the inner office and closed the door behind them, effectively shutting the girls out from what was becoming a truly gripping conversation.
“Who the hell is Stuart Morholt?” Al murmured.
“I have no idea,” Clare said. “But I think we should find out.”
“Oh yeah.”
“D’you think this theft thing is a coincidence?” Al asked quietly as they walked through the Eastern Gallery on their way down to the Great Court.
Clare rolled an eye at her.
“Yeah. Me neither.”
Clare’s initial relief at not being the actual target of Maggie’s wrath was fading and she was beginning to feel a gnawing anxiety. The whole thing had started out as some kind of crazy adventure, but it was as if she’d gone from playing with matches to lighting a raging bonfire: just what she’d promised Mags she wouldn’t let happen.
10
Milo pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose, gears evidently whirring away in the vault of his skull. They’d talked the matter half to death the night before after leaving the museum, but apparently Milo was still running his cerebral analysis programs. Clare wondered if he’d slept much. And then blushed furiously at the thought of him lying in his bed not sleeping. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks.
“Okay. So,” he said, going over the sequence of events for the umpteenth time. “Nothing else on the table—nothing except the torc and the shield—made you … you know …”
“Zot,” Al chimed in helpfully.
Clare plucked a trio of malt-vinegar-soaked fries out of the newspaper cone in Milo’s hand and folded them into her mouth. “Can we please come up with a cooler term for what I do?” she said. It was Saturday morning, and the OS offices were deserted. They’d come back to retrieve the brooch—Clare had been feeling distinctly uneasy without it, and so Milo had agreed to fetch the thing, but only after picking up fish and chips on the way. Apparently, his brain didn’t do so well on an empty stomach.
“‘Zot’ doesn’t work for you?” Milo smiled faintly.
“I like ‘zot,’” Al said. “It’s very genre.”
Clare glared.
“Okay. Okay.” Al put up a hand. “Not ‘zot.’ So … what do you want to call it then?”
“I don’t know,” Clare muttered, thoroughly embarrassed that they were even having this conversation. “Never mind.”
“No,” Milo said, his expression thoughtful. “No, Clare, you’re right. You should have a proper name for this. It’s a gift, after all. A talent. And it’s yours. You should call it whatever you want.”
“But I don’t know what it is,” she said, looking back up into his eyes. It helped enormously that Milo was actually taking her seriously. It helped her be less afraid. A little.
“Well … what does it feel like when it happens?”
What did it feel like? It tingled. And burned—like cinnamon or ginger—a hot, sweet spice that she could taste and feel. Like fire in her veins. Then everything around her would spark and sparkle, flare sun-bright with that lightning flash that made her whole being feel as if it were made of fireflies … and then she would flicker away into star-spattered darkness …
“It … I …”
Milo waited patiently.
“I …” It was almost a whisper when she said it. “I shimmer.” “
Shimmer?” Milo nodded encouragingly. “You shimmer?”
“Yeah.”
“I like ‘shimmer,’” Milo said, grinning.
“I like ‘zot,’” Al muttered.
Milo ignored his cousin. “‘Shimmer’ it is then, Clare. But whatever you want to call it, there has got to be something particular to those artifacts—a specific mechanism of some kind.”
“Mechanism?” Clare frowned, picturing something mechanical.
“A trigger.”
“Oh. Right. So what do you think that is?”
“Pfft.” Milo waved his hand in the air. “I dunno. Magic?”
And there it was.
The M word.
Apparently it had just kind of slipped out, but Milo’s mouth snapped shut the second it did, his scientific sensibilities shocked to their square roots. Because it suddenly seemed that, up until that point, Milo and the girls had been pretty actively avoiding uttering that particular word.
“Heh heh.” Al shifted nervously. “Yeah … magic.”
Milo’s frown deepened. “Honestly? I’d be more comfortable with quantum physics. But yeah. Kidding aside, I think we pretty much have to go with magic on this one.”
Clare hugged her elbows in tight to her body, a chill chasing up her spine to her scalp. “When Boudicca and Llassar used the word ‘magic,’ I was really kind of hoping it was, you know, just a figure of speech.”
“Not really looking that way,” Al murmured.
“Which would make me a total freak.”
“Yup.” Al nodded in thoughtful agreement. “Or maybe not. I mean, maybe it’s not you. Necessarily. What we need to figure out is what the actual event trigger is here. Is this ‘supernatural phenomenon’—I call it that only for lack of a better descriptor and, under the present circumstances, in lieu of a clearly defined system of nomenclature—is this phenomenon an inherent psycho-physiological occurrence exclusive to you? Or is it a function of some mystical property intrinsic to the artifacts themselves?”
“Al, you’re talking like a grad student again. It makes me want to knock you over the head.”
Milo stifled a grin. “Put it this way: Are you the shimmer-er or the shimmer-ee?”
“Oh. I kind of think it might be a little from column A, a little from column B.”
“You mean a bit of both?”
“Right. See—and I know this is going to make me sound like some kind of New Age touchy-feely weirdo, but these things—the brooch, the torc—they’re not like, you know, toasting forks. Not everyday stuff. And not stuff that’s … public, either, if you know what I mean. Like, I get nothing from the bowl or the comb or the cauldron hook.” She moved her hands in little circles in the air. “But Boudicca’s torc, Comorra’s brooch—those things are special. They’re possessions. In the most personal sense, it seems to me. There’s … I don’t know … feeling there. A connection.”
“Okay.” Milo shifted and leaned forward. “I’m with you so far. But what about the Battersea Shield? How much emotional investment can you have with a piece of armour?”
“Well,” Clare said, “a lot of emotional investment maybe. If you lived back then, your life kind of depended on your equipment, didn’t it? Wouldn’t you develop an emotional attachment to a favourite sword?”
“A sword, maybe. A shield? Seems a bit of a stretch,” Milo said. “I don’t think most shields even made it through an average battle intact. They just got hacked to pieces and discarded.”
Clare blinked at him, and he shrugged a bit shyly and reached for his Pepsi.
“I watch the History Channel …”
At least he’s a well-rounded geek, she thought.
Al was chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of breaded haddock. “Milo’s right. And, anyway, from everything I’ve read on the subject, archaeologists all agree that the Battersea Shield isn’t really a shield at all.”
“But it is something … special maybe.” Milo said. “Is that what you’re thinking? That it was something more than just an Iceni objet d’art?”
“Yes! That’s my point, exactly!” Clare nodded vigorously. Al and Milo’s enthusiasm for solving the puzzle was infectious. “I mean, I don’t think I could, like, brush up against a Neolithic soup pot and get hit with the mojo. But certain things—import
ant things—that’s what seems to set off the shimmering. And when I saw Llassar and Connal about to throw the shield in the river on my very first trip, they didn’t look like they were just taking out the trash. They looked like they were doing something important.”
“Like a ritual.” Milo turned his sky-blue gaze on Clare and smiled. “Okay. I’m impressed.”
“By what—the flawless logic of my deductive reasoning?” Clare preened.
Al snorted in amusement. “That—and the fact that you used the word ‘Neolithic’ in a contextually proper fashion.”
“I wish I could go back to the museum and try again with something else,” Clare said. “But things are probably a little on the jumpy side around there, what with the whole theft thing.”
“Right,” Milo said. “The other angle of the puzzle. The worrying angle.”
“Yeah, I’d really like to get to the bottom of that one,” said Clare anxiously. “I mean, what if there’s someone else who can do what I do?” She stared at the gleaming brooch where it lay on her scarf on Milo’s desk. “What if that’s how they stole the torc?”
“We don’t even know what exactly it is that you do, Clare.” Trust Milo to caution her against leaps in logic.
“Right.” Clare reached over and pilfered another french fry and popped it in her mouth. “What I really don’t understand,” she continued, licking her fingers, “is this: there was, like, a king’s ransom in that room, all laid out on the table like a Sunday buffet. And the only thing missing is the torc. I wonder why the thief took just that one piece?”
“Portability, is my guess,” Milo said. “Dude couldn’t very well have just walked out of the museum with the Battersea Shield tucked under his arm …”
Clare looked over at him. His T-shirt du jour was pale blue with a faded vintage Superman crest on it that stretched nicely over the muscles of his chest. Milo hadn’t shaved that morning and the blond stubble just at the corner of his mouth glistened with a faint shine of chip grease. She wondered what it would be like to kiss the lips of a slightly prickly, salt-and-vinegar-flavoured geek god …
“Do I have something in my teeth?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring.”
“Oh! … No … just thinking.”
“Right.” Milo’s expression shifted to something between subtle amusement and shyness and he ran a thumb along the line of his bottom lip.
Clare looked away, feeling her cheeks redden again. “I mean … what you said about the shield makes sense, but there was other smaller stuff laid out in the room, too. Why go to all the trouble for just one piece of hardware when you can go full-on kid-in-a-candy-store?”
“I think he took the torc for the prestige factor.” Al wolfed down her last bite of fish. “Art thieves are weird. They can crack into a vault full of priceless stuff and walk back out again with nothing because it wasn’t quite the right stuff. I’ve heard my mom tell stories like that of gallery break-ins.”
“Your mom hangs out with a whole lotta nutjobs,” Milo said as he wadded the now-empty newspaper cone into a ball and lobbed it into a wastebasket. Then he stood, walked over to his workstation, and flung himself into the chair behind his computer terminal.
Al shrugged. “Yeah, Mumsy’s a cracker-magnet. No argument. Nevertheless, my point stands. And let’s face it—the torc was the absolute star of the Ancient Britain collection. It was about to get its own display case.”
“Kind of makes it seem like the thief was thumbing his nose at the museum,” Clare reasoned.
“Sure does.” Al nodded. “So this Morholt guy Maggie was talking about. You’ve never heard his name before?”
“Nope.”
“Because the way the Perfesser was talking about him …”
“I know,” Clare agreed. She’d heard it too: both what Maggie had said about the guy and the way she’d said it. “I gotta say, I’m intrigued. Also? Slightly disturbed.”
“Yeah.”
“Stuart Morholt,” Milo piped up suddenly, gesturing at his computer screen. “Arch-Druid of the Order of the Free Peoples of Prydein. Scholar, Sage, Sword of Righteous Truth.”
“Pardon?” Al turned to him.
“Also—according to another, less public-relations-driven website—Criminal, Crazy, Con-artist Extraordinaire.”
“What’s Prydein?” Clare asked.
“A really old name for Britain. Pre–Roman invasion.”
“Oh.”
“What site are you on, Mi?” Al squeezed in behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“The mighty Wikipedia led me to these two in particular.” He pointed with one hand and mouse-clicked with the other. “The first one is the official site of the aforementioned Free Peoples—looks like a bunch of weekend LARPers to me—and this one: something called ‘wacko-whackers.com.’ It’s like a debunker kind of site. They seem to have vastly differing opinions on your man Morholt.”
“Wait, what’s a LARPer?” Clare asked.
Al and Milo exchanged an indulgent glance.
“Live Action Role Player,” Al said with only a touch of condescension in her voice.
“Ah.”
“Weird …” Milo murmured. “According to both these web-sites, Stuart Morholt is definitely dead.”
“Not if he’s stealing stuff from the museum, he’s not,” Clare snorted.
“Dr. Jenkins said he was dead, too,” Al said.
“Yeah,” Clare nodded, thinking back over the conversation. “But Maggie sure didn’t agree with her on that point. And there was something else they were talking about that just sounded weird … about a trip to the Midlands with Morholt when they were all students and something terrible happening. Something Maggie said she’d never forget.”
“Well …” Milo pointed at the screen. The three of them stared at the information, mesmerized. “It says right here that Stuart Morholt, ‘a known fugitive wanted for various acts of theft and destruction of property,’ was killed in a fire. That was almost five years ago.”
“So … what the hell?”
“What the hell, indeed,” said a voice from over Clare’s shoulder—right before she felt the chill of cold metal pressing against the base of her skull … and heard a noise she’d only ever heard on television or in the movies.
The unmistakable chck-chck sound of someone cocking the hammer of a gun.
11
Milo swallowed nervously.
Al stifled a gasp.
And Clare suddenly forgot how to breathe.
“What … the hell … indeed,” the voice repeated with languid amusement. The voice was male, older, dulcet, with an upper-class Oxford-ish accent. And, Clare hoped, the product of her hyperactive imagination. Still, she thought she should check.
“Al, Milo …” Clare asked quietly, “is there a guy with a gun standing behind me?”
Milo’s jaw tightened and he nodded. Al, wide-eyed, just said, “Uh-huh …”
It wasn’t the response Clare had been looking for.
The man chuckled. “What your inarticulate little friends mean is ‘Yes, in fact, there is an impeccably stylish gentleman standing directly behind you, holding a vintage, silenced Walther PPK just below your ear—and yes, before anyone asks, that is the same gun used by the Connery-era James Bond—and it is quite capable of making mincemeat of your pretty little brainpan.’ They might also add, if they were very clever, that this gentleman strongly warns you against pulling any teenage ‘girl power’ bravado crap and instead suggests you do exactly what he says in order to avoid an untimely and—it’s safe to imagine—sloppy demise.”
Clare swallowed the knee-jerk sarcastic retort that was on the tip of her tongue and asked, politely, “Could I at least ask what you want from us? Uh, please?”
“I happen to think you could be a very useful little creature, my dear,” he replied. “A girl who can disappear into thin air would, to my way of thinking, be a marvellous help to me in my … pursuits.”
&n
bsp; Clare went ice-cold from the inside out. “I’m not really looking for work.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Too bad. Work just found you.” His tone slipped effortlessly from convivial to don’t-mess-with-me and back again. “I find myself very much intrigued with your disappearing act.”
“What if I say that I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Having observed your little magic trick firsthand I’d say you were lying. Of course, initially I wasn’t sure if I’d really seen it or not. But then I checked the museum security recordings after I’d absconded with them and it seemed my eyes did not tell a lie. Now, how’s about you do me the same courtesy?”
Clare remained silent.
“Tell me about the vanishing act, my dear.” The pressure eased behind Clare’s ear, and from the corner of her eye she saw the barrel of the gun swing in the direction of Al and Milo, who now stood paralyzed in the middle of the room. “Or I will shoot your friends where they stand.”
“No—wait!” Clare yelped.
“Yes?”
There was a sheen of perspiration on Milo’s brow. Al had gone a shade of whitish grey and looked as if she might pass out.
“I’ll tell you,” Clare said quietly. “I’ll tell you everything.”
She heard the sound of one of the tall stools over by a work-table scraping along the floor and sensed the man behind her settling himself to sit on it. Clare turned around slowly and got her first good look at him. His face was tanned and chiselled, handsome in a severe kind of way under a thatch of dark hair only just beginning to silver at the temples. Mid-forties, Clare figured. About the same age as Maggie …
Clare had a sudden flash of insight. She didn’t care what the internet said and she trusted Maggie’s instincts. She knew who this was. Stuart Morholt. Self-professed Lord High Muck-a-Muck Druid. And suddenly she understood how he knew what she could do. He had seen her vanish. He looked much less dorky without the cheesy blond moustache and wig under the guard hat, but it was definitely the same guy who’d been standing guard in the museum.
Once Every Never Page 10
