by John Purcell
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The second car didn’t house living quarters at all. More than anything else, it resembled an operating room, complete with scalpels and other surgical tools. The three steel tables, however, were equipped with shackles, which left no doubt as to Mr. Wu’s intentions.
Luma retrieved Moto’s head, trying to hold back tears. I pointed out that the skull was intact and assured her that, with some assistance, we’d be able to bring Moto back to life.
Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Thomas. We agreed to leave his body where it had fallen. It didn’t make much sense to bury it, and he hadn’t any family or friends to claim it.
At last, the final line of Hexagram 9 made sense.
After the full moon,
Misfortune for a gentleman.
In the process of saving our lives, Thomas had killed Mr. Wu, who lay on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling in surprise. Thomas had twisted his head 180 degrees. We agreed to leave Mr. Wu’s body where it lay, as well. If anyone wanted it, they would have to come get it themselves.
As for Mrs. Po, all I could do was bluff, as I had with Queen Scarlett. We worked out the details as we waited for her to come to.
When her eyes flickered open, she found me straddling her chest, hands around her throat, cutting off her air. Dogan played his part, trying in vain to pull me off, and Luma played hers, begging me not to go through with it. I finally relented after Mrs. Po swore—desperately and repeatedly—that she wouldn’t say a word to anyone. Then I hauled her to her feet and got in a few more threats before she fled the subway car. It was better than nothing.
We spent the next half hour searching for Mr. Wu’s connection to the DataStream. Eventually, we found it in the third subway car, which housed his actual living quarters. Our excitement, however, was short lived. Everything was written in what I took to be Chinese and we couldn’t read a word of it. Dogan didn’t take this well, but he simmered down when I told him I had another plan.
We hiked out of the Metro and back down to the White House and gathered up our things. I made sure to retrieve my ax, and Luma put Moto’s head in her backpack. Then I led the Three down to the bowling alley.
Dogan entered first, surveying the damage. “Wow! Somebody really hates bowling!”
As we followed him in, I said, “Mr. Wu was here a couple of weeks ago.”
“He trashed this place? How come?”
Luma looked at him in disbelief. “Dogan, have you been paying attention? He was trying to find the real Cassius. He thought there was some sort of secret passageway around here.” She turned to me, excitement in her eyes. “Is there, Teo? Do you know where to find it?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it? Tell me!”
“Give me a minute and I’ll show you.”
“You mean it’s here? Mr. Wu was right?”
“Yes.”
Dogan said, “Wait a minute! How come you know where it is?”
I said, “My father left me memories of the White House.”
“Your father? What are you talking about?”
Luma gave him the shortest possible answer. “He’s talking about the scientist who created him.” She turned back to me. “Does that mean your father was the first Cassius?”
“I thought so for a while, but he couldn’t have been.”
“Then how could he have given you the memories?”
“He designed the second complex, the one Mr. Wu was looking for. He wanted me to be able to find it.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
Luma frowned in thought. “But how did Mr. Wu know you had these memories?”
“He didn’t. He suspected it, but he couldn’t be certain. The only way to find out was to gain my trust and coax me into revealing what I knew.”
She nodded, still frowning. “Okay, then what was the point of destroying this bowling alley?”
“I think he took his best shot at finding Cassius himself. It would have saved him a huge amount of trouble.”
Bim spoke up. “Maybe so, but it was still an impulsive act.”
I repeated Bim’s words.
Luma said, “What do you mean?”
“He bided his time for years and years, just like his father, waiting for Teo to wake up. And just before it happened, he lost his self discipline and tore this place apart.”
I repeated Bim’s words, adding, “He was so sure he’d figured out where the passageway was, he had to prove himself right.”
Luma said, “But he didn’t. Why couldn’t he find it?”
“He had the right idea when he tore up the lane. But the concrete beneath the floorboards was so thick he gave up. My father was counting on that.”
“You’re saying it is under this lane?”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I picked up the nearest bowling ball and carried it to the spot where the scorekeeping terminal had been ripped from its base. When I dropped the ball into the hole, it punched through the false bottom and fell another 20 feet, tripping the catch and freeing the counterweight. The entire bowling lane, including the thick slab of concrete beneath it, rose up like the end of a seesaw, revealing a flight of stairs below.
Dogan’s mouth was hanging open.
Luma let out a low whistle. “No wonder he couldn’t find it.”
I said, “I hate to tell you, but it’s back to Farragut North.”
