“It was a poor sell. Why would St. John need to protect a corpse?”
“I want to talk to him.”
“He’s indisposed. I thought we covered this.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Maybe you’ve already killed him.”
“That would make me stupid and a liar, like a person who would fake his own death.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“You know what we want.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Excuse-moi?”
“I said I don’t have it. I never had it and I don’t know where it is.”
“Where what is?”
“The Skull. The Skull, Vosch. The Thirteenth Skull.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Then he laughed. “Ah, Alfred Kropp, you are a witty one. Tell me where you are and I shall help you locate it.”
The airport was crowded; a plane had just landed, and people were hurrying to make their connecting flights, vacationers mostly, judging by the way they were dressed. Couples and families rushing past with that flushed excitement of travel, chattering and laughing, pulling tired kids along. Where they were going, I could never come. Where they were now, I could never be. Tell me where you are.
“Outside,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“I said outside Helena, Montana. At the airport. And bring him with you, understand?”
“I’ll make the arrangements. Why don’t we break with tradition, Alfred? Stay where you are and don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Can’t promise about the stupid part.”
I went back to the restaurant and paid our check. Ashley’s eyes were red, and I wondered if she’d had herself a cry while I was gone.
“What took so long?”
“The wire hadn’t come in yet,” I lied. “I had to wait.”
We ducked into a store and bought some jeans and sweatshirts with BIG SKY printed on the fronts. I went into the men’s room to change.
Ashley gave me the eye when I came out.
“Where are the guns?” she asked.
“Tossed them in the trash,” I said. “Guns and planes don’t mix.”
“Plane to where?”
“We’re flying to Knoxville,” I lied. That was two lies in about thirty minutes. Lying in general is a bad idea, but sometimes you’re shoved between the evil of lying and the thing-that-must-be-done. I pushed that t
hought away; it was Op Nine thinking. In another life, you would have made a superb Superseding Protocol Agent.
“A little obvious, isn’t it?” she asked.