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“He’s clean,” Weasel said.
We got on I-15 heading north toward the airport.
“I know where you’re taking me,” I said. “I know where the circle ends.”
“Most apropos, yes?” Vosch asked.
“Oui,” I said.
00:11:03:21
When you look down at it from thirty-five thousand feet, the Atlantic is as featureless as a chalkboard and about as interesting to watch. But I watched it, hoping the gray monotony would make me drows
y. I needed sleep.
Vosch reclined in the leather seat across from me, wearing a white turtleneck and gray slacks. Flat-Face II sat directly behind me and Weasel beside him, both fast asleep, their snores bugging the heck out of me. Nothing is more annoying than a person sleeping when you can’t.
I watched the ocean. Vosch watched me.
“ ‘Alone, alone, all, all alone,’ ” he said softly. “ ‘Alone on a wide wide sea!/And never a saint took pity on/My Soul in agony . . .’ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ by Coleridge. Do you know it?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to care.
“ ‘Poetry is how the soul breathes . . .’ I forget who said that. I suspect your exposure to it is limited to the lyrics of P. Diddy and Jay-Z. You can listen to them if you like. We have satellite radio. And television. There’s also a full library of DVDs onboard. We just added the complete six-volume Three Stooges collection. In high def! You might find the parallels comforting.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“And books,” he said. “Classics and popular literature. No comics, I’m afraid. You strike me as an Archie fan. That Jughead! And will Arch ever choose between Veronica and Betty?”
“You’re really a well-rounded guy,” I said. “Poetry, books, music, comics, kidnapping, torture, assassination.”
“Oh, I dabble. What is the American expression? Jack of all trades, master of none.”
“There’s one thing that’s been bugging me,” I said.
“About the Thirteenth Skull.”
He smiled, an eyebrow climbing toward his hairline.
“Yes?”
“Why does Jourdain need to kill me to get it?”
“Why does he—?” Vosch cracked up. He laughed until tears shone in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“Ah, Alfred,” Vosch said as he dabbed his cheek with a white handkerchief. “I suppose for the same reason the chicken must cross the road.”
“A friend told me Jourdain was chasing a myth.”
“A friend told you this? You should exercise better judgment in your choice of friends, I would say!”
He reached forward suddenly and, before I could react, grabbed my head, his palm pressed against my nose, fingertips digging into my scalp.
“There is nothing mythical about our quest, Alfred Kropp. Even now the Skull is within our possession and in a few hours it will find its place among the Twelve.”
He started to go on and then stopped himself. I wondered if he was disobeying orders by telling me.
