One Night

by Marsha Qualey

  He must have seen something in my expression; he tensed. “It’s not that comical, Kelly. Maps have it all: the history, philosophy, science, even the religion of a time and place.”

  “I don’t think it’s comical, Your Highness, I just—”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “What, then? You are a royal person.” Simone was back on the porch, knocking again. Loudly this time; we could hear the banging from the car.

  “Prince Tomas—would you rather I call you that?”

  He shook his head, then tipped it toward the house. “What she says: Prince Tom. I like that.”

  “Okay, Prince Tom. I don’t think loving maps is comical. The answer was just so unexpected.”

  He repeated it softly: “Unexpected.” An eyebrow arched. “All this is unexpected, wouldn’t you say?”

  An understatement, of course. I nodded. “I was just delivering a book.”

  “And I was returning to my room for a clean shirt.”

  I peeled my eyes away from his face and glanced down. “Your shirt looks fine.” Sheer white, crisp, expensive, tailored perfectly over an obviously trim build.

  He held the suit coat open wide, revealing a spot on the shirt. “Ketchup,” he said. He smiled. “Now you tell me, Kelly Ray: What’s your passion?”

  Staying sober, I thought. I glanced away. “I don’t have one.”

  “I bet you do.”

  I didn’t suppose he’d like the idea of keeping company with a former addict, so it seemed to be time—again—for an alternate to the whole truth. “It used to be music, Prince Tom. Once upon a time I played the violin. I was very good, once, and I loved it. Did you know the Dakota City University has a famous map collection?”

  During the time he silently looked at me, I swear his eye color shifted from brown to green to brown again. “You changed the subject” he said softly.

  “I know I changed the subject. You’re the visitor in town and I wanted to know if you knew about the university collection.”

  “How do you know about the collection?”

  “That’s kind of insulting, Prince Tom. Do only map lovers know about map collections? I’ve lived here all my life. I hear things. I file them away.”

  My hand hadn’t budged from my lap, but he sure looked as if I’d slapped him. “I didn’t mean to say anything insulting, Kelly. You just surprised me. Maps aren’t even on the radar for most people, so I’m always surprised when someone knows anything at all. I admit, though, I might not have perspective. You see, I don’t simply like looking at maps. I had hoped to spend my life with them. Studying maps, teaching maps, writing about maps. So, yes, I know about the collection here. Did you know that it holds one of the most valuable maps in the world?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He nodded. Leaned closer, then laughed.

  “The joke, Prince Tom?”

  “You, sort of. Watching you work, I guess. You filed that nugget of information away, didn’t you? Closed your eyes and put it somewhere in there.” He gently tapped my head twice before letting his finger rest for a moment on my hair.

  I watched him pull back and secure his hands in a tight clasp. How long, I wondered, since he’d been free to touch a girl?

  For that matter, how long since I’d touched a boy?

  His eyes did the color thing again as he waited for my answer. So did his cheeks, actually. From pale to pink to pale again. I said, “I suppose I did file it.”

  “I wonder what else is in there.”

  “Lots of details, most of them useless. Hey, look at that.”

  A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and was watching Simone prowl around the house. I glanced at her driver and bodyguard; they seemed unconcerned. More likely they were hoping that the unsolicited attention would end the excursion.

  A woman moved toward Simone. She held out a pen and paper. As the pack followed the autograph seeker, Ms. Whittaker, finally inspired to run interference, got off her perch and strode toward her boss.

  “Simone’s been discovered,” I said.

  From the safety of the car we watched her sign autographs and talk to strangers. She said something to her assistant, and then Ms. Whittaker headed back to the car. She opened the door, reached in, and dug into a bag on the front seat for a moment before pulling out a disposable camera. “She wants pictures. You two, out. She wants you in them.”

  The crowd was getting larger. Somehow word of the star’s presence in the neighborhood was spreading. “No,” Prince Tom said.

  Ms. Whittaker swallowed and licked her lips. “She thought you’d say that. She said to tell you the photo will never be released, it’s for her private scrapbook.’’ She sighed heavily. “She’s so into scrapbooks. She also said to tell you, Please.” Prince Tom and I exchanged looks, shrugged, then got out of the car and walked to Simone, following Ms. Whittaker, who wedged a path through the giggling fans.

  “…fabulous books,” Simone was saying. “I want you all to promise to buy them and read them. And she wrote the first one right here. Right here! There you are, you two. Pam, take our picture. Then Simone was gripping us both by the elbows and guiding us onto the porch. “Everybody, you would not believe it! This is—”

  “Don’t, Simone,” I muttered. “The spotlight stays on you.” She looked at Prince Tom. He nodded and mouthed a word, Please. Today’s magic word.

  “These are my friends Tom and Kelly. Give us a minute to snap a picture, then we’ll talk more.” After the shot was taken, they swarmed around her. Prince Tom and I were edged aside.

  A tall gray-haired woman reached out and grabbed Simone by the hand. “I live next door,” she said. “The woman who owns this house just ran out to pick her daughter up at soccer. She’ll be right back. I’m sure she’d be happy to let you in and see the house.”

  Simone swooned again.

  “Oh, hell,” Ms. Whittaker said. “Now we’re really stuck.”

  Prince Tom looked worried. He turned toward the car, glancing up and down the street. “The press will be here any minute,” he said. “Surely someone’s called by now.”

  “We can go,” I said.

  He chewed on his lip. “I never should have done this.”

  “We’ll leave and no one will know.”

  He still wasn’t hearing me. Probably running through in his head all the international implications of being on the lam with a swooning movie star. I tried once more. “Let’s go see the maps,” I said. “The campus isn’t far. There’s a new special collections archive that’s supposed to be wonderful. Maybe they have your valuable map on display. We could be there in minutes.”

  Now I had him. “Really?”

  “But we’d better go quick, before word gets out.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, either, but you did that.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Make a decision, Prince Tom.”

  His eyes went cold. “All right, Kelly. Let’s see the maps.”

  I pushed through the crowd to Simone. Hard to figure why she kept bodyguards, because the lady was loving the contact with the pickup audience, everyone apparently a devoted Simone Sanchez fan. I caught her eye. “We can’t wait; we’re leaving.”

  She patted the air around her, trying to back the people up. “Give me a minute, dear ones; I’ll be right back.”

  She linked her arm through mine. “You don’t want to go inside? I can’t believe I get to go inside. You mean you don’t want to?”

  “He doesn’t want to be caught by the press, Simone. So we’re sneaking off to see—”

  “Don’t say, Delivery Girl. Then I can’t tell if someone asks me.” She held her arms out to the prince. “Wonderful boy, give my love to your sister. Tell her she’s inspired me to record another CD like Live. Tell her she’ll get the very first copy.” A hug, kisses, then a grand sweeping turn back to the waiting crowd. Within seconds she had two wide-eyed fans in her arms and w
as preaching to them about reading.

  Prince Tom and I hustled away. I checked over my shoulder. No one followed, no one looked.

  “So what’s this rare map you hope to see?” I asked. I wasn’t really interested, but I wanted him to keep his mind off where he should be and what he should be doing. Keep him running, keep him happy, keep him busy until I could hand him over to Kit.

  “It was made for Charlemagne. It was a map of his empire, engraved on a silver plate. Charlemagne’s map, right here in Dakota City. We’re taking the bus?”

  “I’m a delivery girl, not a movie star, Prince Tom; this is my limo.” I pushed him on board. He stared at the fare box. I paid for us both. He fell into a seat as the bus lurched. I slipped in beside him and smiled. Ancient maps he knew all about. Public transportation apparently was a mystery. How in the world could he ever rule a country?

  As the bus rolled along, Prince Tom chatted about the map he hoped to see. I listened, sort of, while I thought about the university buildings, bus stops, and how to make sure we avoided the part of campus where they were holding the forum. If we got off at the student union and then took a campus shuttle… I planned it out while he talked about Romans and Franks, cartography, roads, empire building. I heard some—enough.

  Charlemagne: Now there was a king.

  *

  Bad news. When we got to the archives, the first thing we heard was that the one map Prince Tom most wanted to see was out of reach, couldn’t be viewed, not available to anyone. All this—but no reason why—crisply relayed by a student sitting behind the reception desk at the map library. I tried reasoning with her. “This is a public university,” I reminded her. “Everything’s free and open to the public.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “This place is empty,” I said. “No one would know.”

  “No way,” she said.

  Prince Tom tried charm bordering on seduction. That was a better idea, because the student-on-duty was obviously bored with sitting on a hard stool at a desk and reading Valley of the Dolls, which was all she had been doing when we arrived. The two of them bantered for a while. She was melting, but, still, no go. She tossed her head and giggled. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she said. I swear I was about to shake her when Central Casting sent in a professor.

  I mean, this guy was it: worn tweed jacket, pockets bulging; tie askew; disheveled white hair; eyeglasses resting crookedly on his nose. And he wore red Converse sneakers.

  The girl sat primly at her post. “Dr. Larson. I didn’t expect you back after the seminar.” She turned to Tom and me. “Dr. Larson is the curator of the map collection. He’ll confirm what I’ve been saying.”

  The geezer looked us over. “Well?” he said.

  Tom said, “Dr. Ralph Larson?”

  Again: “Well?”

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir. I studied at Oxford under Bulworth Smythe-Warwick.”

  “The hell you did!” The old guy whipped up so sharp and erect, I expected to hear bones snap. “You’re one of Bully’s students? Well, as I live and breathe.” He leaned forward and looked hard. “Not a Brit, are you?”

  “Raised in Texas,” Tom said. Truth as evasion; not a bad trick. He offered his hand. “Tom Buckhorn.”

  I didn’t laugh, which was a huge accomplishment, but I did nearly gag on spit. Buckhorn? Buckhorn? Okay, I could understand why he wouldn’t toss around Tomas Teronovich, but Buckhorn? Prince Tom turned slowly and stilled me with a regal stare.

  On the other hand, if you’ve got to hide behind an alias, why not choose a manly one?

  Professor Larson scanned Tom Buckhorn’s slick suit. “Your accent says Texas, but I’m not sure your clothing does. Oh, that’s probably my ignorance and prejudice. Either way, if you’re one of Bully’s students, you’re smart as a whip, and that’s all I ever care about. How may I help you, Tom?”

  “My friend and I would love to see the Charlemagne.”

  “Can’t.”

  Tom nodded, his face regretful. “That’s what your aide told us. I suppose only a few researchers have access.”

  “They might get away with that at Oxford, but not here,” Professor Larson said. “In the US of A a public school means public. Our collections are open to the taxpayers. And even if we did limit access, well, you can be sure I’d give the okay to one of Bully’s boys.”

  “Then why can’t we see it?”

  “It’s not here. Permanent loan to the Library of Congress. Hasn’t been announced yet, but I delivered it myself last week. Just missed, my boy. Sorry.”

  The prized map was gone, but the genial professor had other things he thought Bully’s boy might want to see. Tom and Dr. Larson—both blithely accepting my claim that I needed to use the bathroom—disappeared together into the archives.

  It wasn’t the bathroom I wanted. I’d spotted a pay phone near the library’s front door. I’m sure I could have cajoled Valley of the Dolls into letting me call for free from her desk or one of the offices; I mean, after all, I’d brought one of Bully’s boys to delight the head man. But I didn’t want her listening in, because I needed to call Kit and arrange the next move. Prince Tom might not be ready to talk and tape an interview, but I didn’t know how much longer I could string him along. Better to let Kit at him now.

  She didn’t answer at home. Odd, because at this time she was usually planted in a favorite chair, drinking ginger ale, and keeping up a running commentary on the news programs. She didn’t pick up at the office, either, and her cell phone threatened to ring on into infinity.

  But the most puzzling thing was that there was no voice mail, not at even one of the numbers. I kept waiting for the familiar message: This is Kit Carpenter. Talk now! Nothing.

  She always left a way for people to get in touch. Kit would die before she’d be out of touch. Okay, sometimes, if the show had been especially hot, her interviews or commentary especially provocative, she’d stay away from the office phone until things cooled down, until the guys at the station saw the ratings numbers and decided to can the “you can’t do this sort of thing” tirades. But even on those days she kept the cell on and open. It was her private link to her private world. And only a few people had that number: a couple of friends from DC (Kit, honey, I’m just back from the White House, and you would not believe…), her personal shopper at Nordstrom (I’ve got some fabulous new Eileen Fishers; you should see these jackets!), the chef at D’Amicos (The scallops are in, luv, and they’re perfect today).

  And me. I had the number. Kit, I’m at the U map library with the prince of Lakveria. He might be ready to talk with you. Shall we meet at the station and tape a segment for tomorrow?

  That was the message she didn’t want to hear. Didn’t dare hear. That must be it. The thugs wanted their prince back. They’d found out that he wasn’t in the hotel room or with Simone, but they didn’t know where he was now. Just that he was with me and that I worked for Kit. One way or another, they were keeping her company until they found me. So she’d shut me out and wasn’t letting me call.

  That meant one thing.

  Kit knew what I was trying to do. They’d told her I was loose with the prince, and she knew what I was trying to do, knew I’d be in touch, knew they’d be on me in an instant if I checked in. She knew, and avoiding the phone connection was her signal: Go for it, Kelly. Bring him in, but you’re on your own.

  *

  Valley of the Dolls was locking up when I returned. “Closing so soon?” I said. “Isn’t it a bit early for the university library, even for summer session?”

  “Not this area,” she said. “Special collections all close at six. Your friend is back in the study room with Dr. Larson. It’s the last door down that hall. Would you tell the professor that I’ve locked up and gone?”

  There were several rectangular tables in the study room. Most were strewn with books and journals. Tom and his new pal were bent over a map laid out on the table farthest from the entrance.
They were both wearing white gloves. Dr. Larson tapped the surface of the paper. “There it is! Do you see how she initialed it, working the letters into the illustration? E.R. Elizabeth Regina. Bully discovered that. Of course, he had his copy to contrast it with, and so this addition jumped right out.” His expression saddened. “His copy has Drake’s initials.”

  “I’ve studied it,” said Tom.

  “Lucky boy,” whispered the professor.

  I sat at a table across the room from them and started thumbing through an atlas while they continued to pore over maps. The professor said something, and Tom happily slapped his hands together in a soft clap. Good joke, I guess. Then Tom pointed at something and replied. The professor threw back his head and roared. Cartographer humor. What a riot.

  They hauled out another map and continued their private jokefest; I began a mental list of notes and questions for Kit. Ask him about Oxford, maybe about this Bully. And what was it like going to school as a kid in Texas? Oh, yes: Skiing in Switzerland—how does that prepare you for leading a troubled country? And just how rich are you? The royal family supposedly drained the Lakverian treasury and emptied museums before it left on its fifty-year exile. Any plans to give some of it back? And one final question for you, Your Highness: What’s so funny about maps?

  Tom had taken off his jacket and draped it on the back of a chair. His shirttail was working its way out of his pants, his tie was pulled loose, and he’d rolled his sleeves up, exposing sinewy forearms above the gloves. He leaned forward to catch something Dr. Larson was saying, and the shirt tightened across his wide shoulders. His eyes stayed fixed on the professor while he listened, not wavering a moment. What would it be like, I wondered, to have those eyes pinned on me?

  Their talking buzzed on. I put my head down on my arms. Okay, somehow I’d figure out what to do and how to deliver him to Kit. Nothing was urgent now. I’d gotten him this far. Out of sight and out of reach of his guards.

  My eyes caught Tom’s. He was watching me now, looking over the professor’s bowed head while the older man studied something on the table. Just before I closed my eyes, we both smiled.