by null
“I might know various bits about magic and the supernatural and the lot, but apparitions and their motives have always stayed a bit beyond me.”
Electricity, however, the professor knew quite well. As they finished their soup, Knight explained to his assistant what an extremely effective tool it was for reducing ectoplasmic energy to nothing more than a flurry of noncohesive atoms. Even if Dollins’ spirit somehow survived the blast, the professor assured Bridget, it would still take the thing quite some time to reassemble itself.
Not that either of them could worry about such matters right then. It was Thursday, which meant it was a workday, which meant both of them were expected at the museum—were already late, in fact. Swallowing the last of the broth in his bowl, Knight replaced the faded piece of china on the table as he said;
“Well, of course, if you’d like to play a bit of hookey, I am the boss, well … as far as you’re concerned, anyway. I think you would certainly be justified in lounging about for a day. Or if you wanted to take the time to finally connect with your sorority sister, get settled in out there in Queens—”
The professor looked to Bridget for an answer and was surprised to find her smiling. Wondering what she might have to grin over, outside of the fact that like any chef she could simply be pleased to see he had finished his soup, he asked the reason for her good cheer. Her eyes filled with a sudden mischief, she told him;
“I’m not so certain Queens is the best place for me this summer. Someone once told me it was ‘lumpy.’ ”
“Did they now?”
“Oh yes,” she continued, adding, “how did they describe it now?… . Oh, I remember, they said it was ‘only good for taking up the overflow.’ ”
“Not very kind of them. Perhaps even a bit condescending, if you think about it.”
Knight’s voice had gone soft as he replied to the young woman. He understood what was happening between them, knew what his assistant wanted—realized why she was having the difficulty she was in asking for it. As the silence in the kitchen began to shift slightly from the type that is restful to that which is uneasy, he swept aside the growing awkwardness, saying;
“You know, this was rather a good pot of soup.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Well, and you’re welcome, certainly. But, I was actually going somewhere with that. You see, it’s just that, being a stuffy old bachelor, I’ve kind of grown out of the habit of having anyone else around. This was rather a delightful change of pace, and so … I was just wondering… .”
“Yes … ?”
“I’ve been reflecting, as it were, I mean …” Making his voice as light as possible, Knight spread a bit more than his usual half smile across his face, then continued, saying, “With you privy to so many of my secrets now, that perhaps I should be keeping a closer eye on you.”
“Sir … ?”
“You’ll forgive me,” the professor said, hoping he was making his true intentions clear. “I feel a little awkward asking this, and I certainly wouldn’t want to appear forward, or in any way improper—” Unable to contain herself, Bridget cut Knight off, blurting;
“Please let me stay!”
The professor sat quietly on his side of the kitchen table, elbows planted firmly, hands held before his face, suddenly not quite knowing what to say next. Knight felt a certain embarrassment, for he had been building up to asking the young woman if she would like to stay. He thought that was what she had been leading toward, thought he knew why she wanted to do so, and had been trying to make such easier for her. Bridget’s unexpected outburst, however, not only caught him completely off-guard but left him a trifle flustered as well. Before he could regain his composure, the redhead added;
“I’m sorry, but I’m just so scared. All I can think is that I don’t know what’s happening to me—to us. And that you don’t know what’s happening to us. And if you don’t know …”
“Well, it’s not like—”
“Professor, please—if any of these crazy things come after me, I’m finished. I don’t want to be gunned down or burned to death or blown up or struck by lightning. And going to Queens isn’t going to make me safe. Running back home to Montana isn’t going to make me safe.”
“The way things have been going,” the professor reminded his assistant, “I’m not so certain you’re all that safe around me, either. And please, I don’t say that to dissuade you, but to remind you that, as you said, I really don’t have any idea as to what it is that’s been happening around us.”
“I know all of that,” answered Bridget softly, her tone trembling. Looking at her, staring into the clearly frightened green eyes staring into his own, Knight felt his heart crumbling. He could not turn the young woman away, for no other reason than she was most likely completely correct in her assessment of the situation.
“And … I don’t care.”
Rapidly the professor turned the recent rash of events over in his mind. There was no question that he did not know what was going on. Or, for that matter, why it was happening, either. For all he knew, the very second young Bridget Elkins got too far away from him, some other doorway from beyond would open and launch forth some new entity to ensnare his helpless assistant, simply because whatever was going on behind that door, the progenitors of it felt destroying her could help their cause. A part of his brain asked him, and not very subtly, if he was willing to take her in simply because he liked her full figure and long legs. Growling at himself, he made the cynical side of his nature aware that he intended to offer her what sanctuary he could in spite of her many pleasing attributes.
“I know it’s an imposition. But I just know I’m not going to feel safe anywhere else.” As she spoke more rapidly with each word, tears began to roll down Bridget’s face while she sobbed, “It’s like I’m losing my mind. When I look in the mirror, I’m not certain who it is I’m seeing there. Every shadow, in corners, passing the window, I, I—”
“It’s all right, my dear… .”
“And I promise, I won’t ask another embarrassing question. I don’t care why you didn’t want a doctor to see you, or why you have giant scars running across your chest, or—”
And then, the professor put a finger of one hand to his lips while he took one of hers in his other, squeezing it gently.
“As for my aversion to doctors, the bodies of those who store magical energies tend to throw off the readings of medical instruments. Everything from MRIs to simple blood-pressure machines, none of them seem normal, and questions begin to mount up which can’t be answered. I knew my body would repair itself, but I, well, I was too frazzled at the moment to explain that to you. The lightning and all.” Sensing that his assistant was almost calm, he began again;
“And, as for the scars—”
Before he could even really begin his second explanation, Bridget suddenly began crying in earnest, sobbing harder the more Knight tried to comfort her. They both then began apologizing to each other, her for breaking down so completely, him for knowing nothing about how to treat women. Talking over each other, they blurted;
“I think you know something about women, but me—”
“I wish I could somehow reverse all this. I’m so sorry that—”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for—”
And then suddenly the professor and his assistant stopped talking and stared at each other for an instant. Hearing what each other had been saying, the pair started chuckling over how foolish they sounded. Handing the redhead a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table, Knight commented;
“Modern life really has screwed up just about everything, hasn’t it?” Bridget merely nodded, doing what she could to dry her face. As she did, the professor said;
“Very well, as far as your friend in Queens, or your family, for that matter, is concerned, my housekeeper left me two months ago to get married. My home is a mess; my pantry is bare. I’ve been living on canned beans and spaghetti and will soon forget to bathe wit
hout supervision. For taking care of me you get free room and board close to the museum, as well as a ride to and from work every day. Is that enough of a story to placate all parties?”
“I would think so,” answered Bridget, smiling brightly as she gathered up their bowls, spoons, and used napkins. Running the hot water in the sink, she tossed the refuse in a nearby container Knight kept there for that purpose, then started cleaning their dishes. She was about to thank the professor further, not only for his generosity but also for understanding her feelings, when she noted that he suddenly appeared to be transfixed, as if listening for some faraway sound. As she finished the dishes, Knight announced;
“Well, if you’re thinking you want to be where I am, then you’d better get ready to head into the museum.”
“What is it,” she asked. Drying her hands on the oversized T-shirt in which she had slept, she added, “You seemed so far away for a moment there.”
“I was,” answered Knight. “I finally heard something in the minds of one of the bozos worth hearing.” When his assistant inquired as to what that might be, the professor told her;
“I overheard a phone conversation Mr. Klein was having with one of his underlings. Dr. Ungari’s plane has just landed at JFK Airport. Ungari and Bakur are in New York City.”
“Okay,” answered Bridget, her tone suddenly bright, “guess I better get cleaned up. After all, I’d hate to have less than perfect makeup for my third day in the greatest city in the world. I mean, God only knows what’s going to happen today.”
Watching Bridget leave the kitchen, Knight nodded his head unconsciously, telling her, “Indeed, God only knows.”
And, he thought, frowning as he did so, as usual, the bastard is keeping the information to himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Knight had been inside the museum for no more than twenty minutes when Martin Klein walked into his office unannounced. Of course, since the professor could still hear the agent’s thoughts, he was in no way surprised by the FBI man’s arrival. Indeed, it pleased Knight to act as if Klein’s sudden appearance there were the most natural thing in the world, as if he were merely a delivery boy from the corner deli, bringing the professor a coffee the way he did every morning. Looking to get some sort of reaction out of Knight, the agent said;
“Ungari is on his way here.”
“But we knew that,” the professor answered, not actually looking up from his paperwork, “didn’t we?”
“I don’t mean he’s still heading to America, Knight. I mean he’s here, in New York, and headed for the museum.”
“Oh well,” responded the professor matter-of-factly, “that seems logical.” Setting aside the report in which he had been pretending to have a deep interest, Knight finally looked up at the FBI man, telling him;
“His entire reason for leaving Syria in the first place was to come to the museum, to examine the Dream Stone—correct? Well, and to visit with his old friend, of course, namely myself. So, I don’t understand the fuss. I mean, why in heavens wouldn’t he head straight here?”
“Fine.” Klein spat the single word. Taking pity on the FBI man, the curator told him;
“Listen, I do understand that you are, trite as the cliché might sound, simply doing your job. And given the circumstances and all the, well, all the crazy shit, for lack of a better phrase, that has been going on around here, it’s probably for the best that we have you here to do your job.”
Klein stared at the professor for a long moment, not certain what to make of his last little speech. The agent’s surface instinct was to feel a measured amount of relief, his ability to hope flooding him with the suggestion that he might finally be able to relax a bit around this impossible character cruel Fate had introduced into his life. Knight, or at least the man’s antics, had been twisting the FBI agent’s guts in continual knots. His stomach’s acid content had escalated dramatically since the museum assignment had started, and his stress levels along with it. He had not been sleeping well, either.
“Professor,” he said after a cautious moment’s pause, “I would so greatly love to believe that’s how you really feel.”
“Oh, you can,” answered Knight, allowing his tone to flood with sincerity. With his being in such close proximity with the agent after melding their minds, Klein’s every thought came to the curator with echoing clarity. Until the mixture the professor had slipped into the water at the meeting the day before wore off, it would be impossible for the man to hide the slightest idea or feeling from Knight. Thus it was that he now knew for certain the FBI man was seriously attempting to do a job he believed in, without any real animosity or suspicion aimed at Knight himself—excepting, of course, for that which he deserved for having acted as he had toward the man.
There you go, he thought, getting yourself in trouble once again because you think you’re so clever. Feeling a marked level of genuine sympathy for Klein at that moment, the professor told him quietly;
“I suppose I should actually render unto you an apology. I’ve displayed some of the classic arrogance of the ivory-towered academic toward you, I’m afraid. And for no good reason. You really do believe this Morand person might be a threat, and I have no proof to the otherwise.”
Klein simply continued to stare at the curator. The agent greatly wanted to believe what he was hearing. He possessed a sharp set of instincts for sizing people up, for knowing when they were telling the truth or simply some portion of it with which they wished to distract. Knight had proved to be such a troublesome enigma so far, however, even with his usually reliable judgment telling him the professor was finally dealing with him squarely, still the agent found a segment of his mind urging him to caution simply because Knight had proved to be so adept at jerking him around. Giving in to his hopes, he answered;
“I don’t necessarily believe Bakur, and I use the name he wishes people to believe is his because I don’t want to encourage any slipup—”
“Of course.”
“I don’t believe Bakur is plotting against the museum, or that he’s up to anything specific at the moment. It’s simply my job to watch such characters. And when they’re connected to cases like this one, explosions in public forums, mysterious fires in government facilities …” The agent spread his hands wide in a plaintive gesture, hoping to encourage more cooperative remarks from the professor. Knight obliged him, answering;
“No, I completely understand. I do. And I understand that I haven’t been much help, either. All I can say in my defense is that I’m very protective of my museum, and … well, no man likes to admit such, but—”
“But,” filled in Klein, suddenly feeling a certain sympathy toward the curator, “it’s kind of rattling to be around dead bodies and people shooting at each other, and explosions, and being forced to run from burning buildings—all in a very short period of time? If that’s where you were going, don’t worry about it. I’ve been trained for such eventualities, and I think I’d be a bit off my feed if I’d gone through everything you have in the past couple of days, myself.”
Damn, thought Knight, the side of his mouth curling into a smile, I think I’m going to have to like this fellow. Well, there goes my standing with all the liberals on the board. The professor felt his smile spreading across his entire face as a voice from the back of his mind added;
Which means, of course, there goes your standing with the entire board. Extending his hand across his desk, Knight looked the FBI man squarely in the eye, then asked;
“Do you think we might start back at the beginning, with you being pretty much the same person you have been since you arrived, and me attempting to be … well, shall we say, more of a grown-up?” Taking Knight’s hand, Klein answered;
“At this moment, nothing would please me better, sir.”
The two men shook hands, both relaxing as contact with each other told them all their senses could comfortably absorb. Both were possessed of strong defensive shields and impressive skills when it came to a
nalyzing the motives of others. Both of them were men hard put-upon when it came to trusting new people. They had reached that instance with one another where a decision had to be made one way or the other, though, and both were relieved to finally have found a point where they could be comfortable in the other’s presence.
As they released each other’s hand, the phone on Knight’s desk rang. Excusing himself, the professor answered his call. He did so quickly, giving instructions to have someone escorted to his office. Replacing his handheld phone in its charger, he looked up at Klein, then said;
“As I’m certain you’ve deduced, it seems I have visitors. Care to guess who?”
“Ungari and Bakur have arrived, I take it?”
“And will be here in a matter of minutes.” The FBI man nodded to Knight, then, finally cracking a smile of his own, said;
“Okay then—I guess it’s showtime.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Dr. Ashur Ungari,” said Knight in his most formal voice, “may I introduce Mr. Martin Klein. Marty is the museum’s newly appointed liaison to the outside world in all matters governmental.”
“Pleased, I am most certain,” said the doctor, taking the FBI man’s hand. “And while we are making with introductions, might I introduce my own governmental attaché, Hamid Bakur.” While the thinner, shorter man who had arrived with Ungari moved forward to shake hands with both Knight and Klein, the doctor expounded further, adding;
“Hamid is working with me as my assistant, and also as my official contact with the Syrian government—given to me by the Syrian government.”
A natural actor, the FBI man betrayed no reaction when Ungari so casually announced Bakur’s true nature. The agent’s mind raced over what such might possibly mean. It obviously indicated that the doctor understood his assistant’s true assignment, to keep his eyes on Ungari and report all that happened at the Memak’tori dig site back to the Syrian government. But, wondered Klein, did the doctor know Bakur’s other connections? Was Ungari trying to tell Knight or himself something?
