The Dead of Night, Page 5

  Defiantly, Cheyenne thrust the screen forward:

  Location?

  Amy tapped out the answer with one hand:

  Samarkand, Uzbekistan

  “You told him the truth,” Dan whispered.

  Amy exhaled. “A deal’s a deal. We don’t want him to catch us lying.”

  As Jake revved the engine, another message began to appear, in chunks:

  Kudos. But lest this seem too easy, let’s mix things up. Your next task: Find me a stale orb. You have 4 full days, or say farewell to a Cahill.

  You pick.

  If I don’t hear your verdict in 30 seconds, I choose.

  Jake threw the car into park. “He can’t be serious.”

  Amy’s blood ran cold. “We can’t pick somebody to kill!”

  Dan banged his fist against the car armrest. “We can’t match him. We can’t outwit him. Every time, he just makes it worse!”

  15 seconds till my turn.

  Amy’s mind was blanking out. Choosing a name would be impossible. Giving Vesper One the choice was even more impossible.

  5 seconds.

  Before she could decide, Dan grabbed the phone and typed two words. Amy saw them only for a split second before he pressed SEND:

  Alistair Oh.

  Three sets of eyes glared at Dan like oncoming headlights. Atticus’s jaw hung open.

  Dan’s thumbs stood rigid over the keyboard. He felt as if they were on fire. As if someone else had climbed inside his brain and pressed the keys.

  What did I just do?

  Amy struggled to get words out. “H-h-how could you?”

  “Alistair . . . he’s the logical choice. . . .” Dan said, searching for a train of reasoning in his brain. “The others . . . Nellie, Ted, Phoenix, Natalie . . . they’re young. They have the most years ahead of them. Fiske is our uncle, too, Grace’s brother. . . .”

  “I can’t believe this is coming from your mouth,” Amy said hoarsely. “You’re measuring the value of lives. That’s not something for people to do!”

  Cheyenne’s phone, still in Dan’s hand, beeped once more.

  I will let the old man know who chose him for this honor. I leave you to your search. The clock starts immediately. 4 days.

  Oops. 3 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.

  As Jake threw the car into gear, Dan tossed the phone back to Cheyenne.

  “You can’t just leave us here!” Casper demanded.

  Atticus shrugged. “Watch us.”

  They took off with a screech of tires.

  Dan stared out the open window, listening to the Wyomings’ babble of protest recede. The breeze was hot and reeked of explosives. Devil’s breath.

  Four days. Ninety-six hours.

  It was all that stood between an impossible task in a distant country and Dan’s debut as a murderer.

  The rain felt greasy on Jake’s skin. He shut his window. In the distance, clouds sat heavily on the mountaintops. Through a hiss of static, the radio blared some song that sounded like strangled, wailing cats.

  Dan and Atticus were asleep in the backseat. Amy was nearly comatose in the seat next to him.

  He knew she hated him. Fine. He could never forgive her for the things she’d done. Like the long delay in telling him about the danger Atticus was in. Like dragging him into the Cahills’ dirty little string of international thefts and murder attempts.

  What kind of family picks among themselves for someone to die? What kind of family draws in an innocent kid and makes him the target of murderers?

  You’d think with all their money, they could pay for a little protection. And peace.

  Jake suddenly snapped off the radio. “Hey, Amy, can I ask a question? Where do you get the money?”

  “Excuse me?” Amy said.

  “The private jet — you just made a phone call, and it was waiting for us,” Jake said. “And that wad of cash you left the taxi driver when we took this cab? It was enough to buy a fleet. Where do you get it?”

  Amy sighed. She longed to tell him the truth, but she had already revealed too much to the Rosenblooms. “From a contest,” she said simply.

  “Lottery?” Jake pressed.

  “Not exactly,” Amy replied. “Our grandmother Grace Cahill left every descendant a million bucks. Or they could give it up and instead join a hunt for thirty-nine clues leading to a secret. Family branches had been searching for centuries, fighting and killing each other. Somehow she thought Dan and I would unite the family.”

  “Because you’re Madrigals?” Atticus said groggily from the backseat, stirring from his nap.

  Amy nodded. “It was the only way the secret could be reassembled.”

  “So what was the secret?” Jake asked.

  “It was destroyed, Jake,” Amy said. “So it doesn’t matter.”

  “When my stepmom died,” Jake said, “she told Att she and he were Guardians. She also said she ‘needed Grace.’ Why? Is that what she was guarding from the Vespers — the secret of the clues?”

  Amy shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  This was upsetting Jake more and more. He tried to put the pieces together. But all he could see was Atticus, trapped inside a cave with those two blond maniacs. What if he’d been in there when the place blew up?

  “How long does he have?” Jake asked.

  Amy cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

  Jake slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed along the road. A driver honked loudly. Jake yanked the steering wheel to avoid a guardrail. Stopping on a grassy shoulder, he spun around to Amy. “What are you going to do for my brother?” he demanded.

  Amy looked frightened. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re off to Samarkand,” Jake said. “You’ve got an uncle to worry about. Some cockamamie secret to find. But the Vespers are out to murder my brother. What are you going to do for him?”

  “I — I —” Amy stammered. She took a deep breath and looked out the window. “Jake, you and Atticus are going back to Rome. We won’t be near you. But I’ll make sure Attleboro keeps an eye on you. They have amazing coverage, Cahill agents in every country —”

  Jake threw back his head and laughed. This was insulting. “I see what Attleboro has done so far. The beauty contest winner, the posh boy, and the geek.”

  “Don’t talk about them that way!” Amy snapped.

  Jake leaned across the car. “Then don’t talk to me about virtual protection. It won’t work.”

  “What do you suggest?” Dan asked.

  “It’s not a suggestion, it’s a demand.” Jake spun around, throwing the car in gear. “My brother and I are going with you.

  In a room with no decoration, a man and woman dressed in white looked up from a crossword puzzle.

  The alert monitor was glowing red. Instructions, they knew, were to follow. Most alerts were code blue — mundane things, food and materials. Cost cutting.

  Code orange was more difficult. Messy. Like the shooting of the girl in the shoulder.

  Neither of them was expecting a code red.

  They had taken bets on who they would kill first. The man had placed a hefty sum on the older gent who had come dressed in black. The woman had predicted the annoying athletic girl.

  They leaned forward, suddenly intent as the name flashed.

  “We both lose,” the man said with a touch of sadness.

  They had grown to like the Asian fellow with the cane.

  Due to added security precautions, all private charter flights from Kayseri Erkilet Airport are limited to account holders. All other reservations must be made in person.

  Dan snapped his phone shut as he got out of the taxicab. He’d been trying for an hour to book a flight. For four.

  He wished it were for three. Having Atticus alon
g would be cool. Not so much Jake.

  “I’ll contact Sinead,” Amy said. “She’ll figure a way around this.”

  Atticus was grinning as he faced the airport. “Samarkand will be cool. It’s the oldest city in central Asia. The name means either ‘Fort of Stones’ or ‘City of Rocks’ or ‘Meeting Place.’ No one knows for sure. But it was smack in the middle of the Silk Road route, where they transported stuff between China and the Mediterranean — thievery, intrigue, blood-and-guts central. Genghis Khan went ballistic there and nuked the place. Well, not nukes, in actuality. More like beheadings, disembowelings, setting huts on fire, entrails strewn all over.”

  Dan felt his spirits lift. Amy rattled off history and put him to sleep, but Atticus made it sound interesting.

  “We may end up taking the Silk Road,” Dan said, heading toward the entrance. “I can’t get a jet.”

  “What’s that?” Amy asked from behind him.

  “I said, I can’t get a jet,” Dan repeated. “They’re requiring we book it in person.”

  “No, I meant what’s that thing sticking out of your backpack?” Amy said. “The branch.”

  Dan swung the pack around. The wormwood branch had poked through a gap in the zipper.

  He shoved it back in, hoping she didn’t recognize what it was. “Must have jammed in there when I fell after the explosion.”

  “Sorry to butt in on the fun,” Jake said, “but maybe one of us should run ahead and get in line?”

  “Sinead says Interpol is tracking every flight out of Turkey,” Amy said. “We can’t take the risk. She says Dan and I will need fake papers and disguises.”

  Dan stepped up onto the curb and stopped. “How long will it take?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Amy said with a sigh.

  “Tomorrow?” Dan repeated.

  The roar of an engine blasted from his left — and a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with flame decals jumped the sidewalk in front of him.

  A small crowd of travelers scattered.

  “How do you say, ‘You jerk!’ in Turkish?” Jake asked.

  “Erasmus!” Dan cried with relief.

  Jake balled his fist angrily and shouted, “Erasmus!”

  The driver pulled off his helmet and goggles, allowing his dark, curly locks to spill over the collar of his black leather jacket. The sun had created a raccoonlike pattern on his face. “At your service.”

  “Wait,” Jake said, confused. “Erasmus is his name?”

  Immediately airport guards surrounded the burly Cahill operative. He answered in his deep, firm voice — in their language. In seconds, they were walking away.

  Dan watched in awe. “I didn’t know you talk Turkey.”

  “I speak Turkish.” The corner of Erasmus’s mouth turned up slightly. His dark eyes seemed to dance. “My last name is Yilmaz. Originally from Istanbul.”

  “Sinead said you were missing!” Amy exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

  The smile vanished. “We need to talk. Alone.”

  Dan looked sheepishly at Atticus. “A minute, guys?”

  “You nearly ran my brother over,” Jake said, glowering at Erasmus. “And this is your apology?”

  “I’m deeply sorry,” Erasmus said.

  “Come on, Att,” Jake grumbled. “Let’s get a snack.”

  As they turned to go, Erasmus quickly parked his bike at the curb. Amy walked beside him, reporting what had happened. When she spoke about Atticus and Jake, Erasmus stopped. “What did you say?” he asked. “The younger brother is a what?”

  “Guardian,” Dan said. “His mother was, too. She knew Grace. Do you know what that all means?”

  Erasmus exhaled deeply. “I am afraid our task with the Vespers is raising more questions than answers.” He gestured grimly to a cement bench, in the shadow of a soot-stained column. “Please. Sit.”

  Dan felt a wave of fear. Normally Erasmus was all steely strength and confidence. But something about his expression was . . . off. Nothing obvious — just a bit of unsureness in the eye, a bend in his posture. His face looked haggard, as if he’d aged five years. “I am normally good with words. But they fail me now.”

  “Try,” Dan said, fighting back the horrible possibilities. “Please.”

  Erasmus wiped his sunburned forehead with his sleeve. His voice was distant and halting. “I was in Rome. At a hotel. I wasn’t expecting the door to be open. Someone had been there before me. By the time I entered the room . . . McIntyre was already . . .”

  The sadness in Erasmus’s eyes was enough to fill in the last word.

  “No.” Amy’s face drained of color. “This is not funny, Erasmus. Tell us this is some kind of joke!”

  “I’m sorry, children,” Erasmus said. “He is gone.”

  A swirl of candy wrappers danced around Dan’s ankles. He was glad to be sitting, because he didn’t think his legs would hold him up. He heard a strangled squeak, and it took him a moment to realize it had come from his own mouth.

  McIntyre . . .

  It was impossible.

  McIntyre had been the 39 Clues hunt. He’d set it in motion. He’d secretly watched over Dan and Amy — afterward, too. He’d been like a dad, teaching them how to paddle a canoe and keep a checkbook. He took them to the opera and didn’t even mind if they slept. Together they’d cheered Red Sox homers and Patriot touchdowns. Like normal kids.

  “He asked us to call him Mac. . . .” Dan said softly. The old guy was so formal. Hard as they tried, they could only call him Mr. McIntyre.

  He wished he could take that back now. He wished he could take McIntyre back, and all the people who had done so much for him — Mom, Grace, Irina, Lester. They were all dead now. And the only ones left were Amy and . . .

  Dad.

  Suddenly, the faces washed out of Dan’s mind, replaced by two stark words. As if they’d been seared into the folds of his brain by a hot iron.

  Suspend judgment.

  AJT’s plea for understanding. For forgiveness.

  Up to now, Dan hadn’t understood the meaning. What was he was supposed to forgive? Now it was clear. The message had come in right around the time that Erasmus would have found the body.

  He’s asking me to forgive him for the murder of William McIntyre.

  What kind of monster was he?

  Forgive this? Then what? Who would be next?

  The rest of the hostages. Erasmus, maybe. Amy. Until there’s no one left. Just me.

  Me and you, AJT. Is that the plan?

  Just us?

  Then one of us had better watch his back.

  Dan whipped his phone out of his pocket and accessed his text messages.

  “Dan?” Amy said tentatively. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m saying good-bye,” he said, “to a ghost.”

  The message glowed at him from the screen now, the words he’d read at least a thousand times. With a firm jab, he pressed DELETE.

  Amy’s eyes were full of tears. “Welcome back, Dan,” she said.

  But as she rested her head on his shoulder, Dan felt nothing.

  Amy held tight to her brother. With McIntyre gone, it felt like they’d lost the glue that had held them together. Dan was rocking back and forth, his features hard and remote. Beside them, Erasmus sat with his head in his hands.

  “Are you guys all right?” Atticus’s voice called out.

  He and Jake approached with trays of coffee, hot cocoa, and bags of trail mix, chocolates, and chips. “I’m hoping this is a hunger issue?” Jake said.

  “McIntyre is dead,” Dan said, his voice flat and toneless.

  Jake nearly spilled his tray. Atticus steadied him by the arm, and the two boys squeezed onto the bench. “What happened?”

  Erasmus look
ed up curiously. “You knew him?”

  “Since I was a little boy,” Atticus said. “He was our family attorney.”

  “I had no idea.” Erasmus bowed his head. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such awful news. And I promise I won’t rest until I track down his murderer.”

  Jake looked dazed. “Why would someone want to kill him?”

  “The information, alas, is of the utmost confidentiality.” Erasmus glanced at Amy. “For that I would need clearance from . . . the very top.”

  Amy felt his eyes burning the side of her head. The idea — Amy, the very top — seemed so ridiculous now. McIntyre had died on her watch. Some leader.

  McIntyre had always had confidence in her. Whenever she was full of doubt, he’d say, There’s really no other choice. You are born to that role, Amy.

  Well, he was wrong about that. She’d let him down on that score. At the very top of the Cahill family was a vacuum.

  Amy shrugged. “Atticus and Jake are as far in this as we are. Tell them.”

  Erasmus reached into his jacket pocket and drew out two wrinkled sheets of paper. “Moments before the attack, McIntyre had been looking through files. He had procured a top secret Vesper list. When he sensed someone was coming, he hid it. He put up a fight, but alas, the attacker was swift and fierce. But as McIntyre died, he twisted his body in an odd way. He was pointing to the place where he’d hidden the papers — in his shoes. His attacker did not think to look there.”

  “We don’t know what this means yet,” Erasmus added.

  Amy was dumbfounded. The list made no sense. No geographical patterns. No obvious codes. Only one city name rang a bell.

  “Pompeii . . .” she said. “The city was covered in pumice and ash after the explosion of Mount Vesuvius in A.D. 79. Grace wrote about Pompeii in her notes. She called the explosion the first test.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Erasmus asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amy murmured.