The King's Deception

An arched oak door stood closed, but its latch opened. Inside was the college chapel, the nave long and narrow, lined on either side with carved benches beneath tracery windows.

Like St. George’s Chapel, only smaller.

Elaborate patterns of marble made up the floor and a muted stained-glass window loomed over the altar at the far end. Three fixtures threw off an orangey glow. Though she was inside, away from the shooter, a quick look around confirmed that the door she’d just entered was the only way in or out. Above her rose an organ nestled against the building’s rear wall, its pipes reaching toward a vaulted ceiling. A narrow set of stairs led up to where the instrument was played.

From behind the organ, three meters above her, a man appeared.

His face was hooded, and he wore a dark jacket.

He aimed a weapon and fired.

* * *

Ian rode in the cab with Cotton Malone, holding the plastic bag with its varied contents. Malone had returned it to him.

He unzipped the top and lifted out the books.

Ivanhoe and Le Morte d’Arthur.

Malone pointed to the title pages. “My books are owner-stamped like that, too.”

“Where’d you get that name? Cotton?”

“It’s shorter than my full name, Harold Earl Malone.”

“But why Cotton?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You don’t like answering questions, either, do you?”

“I prefer when you do that.” Malone pointed. “Good taste in books. Ivanhoe is one of my favorites, and King Arthur is hard to beat.”

“I like Camelot, the Knights of the Round Table, the Holy Grail. Miss Mary gave me a couple of other stories on Merlin and Guinevere.”

“I like books, too.”

“Never said I liked books.”

“You don’t have to. The way you hold them gives it away.”

He hadn’t realized there was a way to hold a book.

“You cradle it in your palm. Even though those books have seen a lot of use, they’re still precious to you.”

“They’re just books.” But his denial sounded hollow.

“I’ve always considered them ideas, forever recorded.” Malone motioned to one of the paperbacks. “Malory wrote King Arthur in the late part of the 15th century. So you’re reading his thoughts from five hundred years ago. We’ll never know Malory, but we know his imagination.”

“You don’t think Arthur existed?”

“What do you think? Was he real or just a character Malory created?”

“He was real.” The force of his declaration bothered him. He was showing too much of himself to this stranger.

Malone flashed a smile. “Spoken like a true Englishman. I would have expected no less from you.”

“I’m Scottish, not British.”

“Really now? As I recall, Scots and English have been British since the 17th century.”

“Maybe so. But those sassanacks’ noses are too far up their arses for me.”

Malone let out a chuckle. “I haven’t heard an Englishman called a sassanack in a while. Spoken like a true jock.”

“How did you know we Scots are jocks?”

“I read, too.”

He’d come to realize that Cotton Malone paid attention, unlike most people he encountered. And he did not seem like a man given to having his knickers in a twist. In that mews, when faced with those fake police and a gun, he’d handled himself as a man in charge, strong and confident, like one of the horses at the track bolting from the gate. His wavy hair, cut neat and trim, carried the burnished tint of old stone. He was tall and muscular, but not overly so. His face was handsome, the features suited to him. He didn’t smile a lot, but there really wasn’t all that much to be happy about. Gary had said his father was a barrister, like the ones Ian had sometimes watched in London courts, parading about in wigs and robes. Yet Malone did not seem cursed with any of that pompousness.

He actually appeared like someone Ian could trust.

And he’d trusted precious few people in his life.

* * *

Kathleen had no time to react. The man pulled the trigger and something propelled toward her. It took an instant for her to realize that the weapon was not a gun, but a Taser.

Electrodes pierced her shoulder.

Electricity stiffened her body, then buckled her legs, dropping her to the floor.

The voltage stopped.

Her head hummed with a high-pitched violence. Every muscle cramped for a few excruciating seconds. Then came the shakes. Uncontrollable.

She’d never felt anything like that.

She lay on the checkerboard marble and tried to regain control. Her eyes were closed and she suddenly felt pressure on her right cheek, her head clamped to the floor. Someone had the sole of their shoe on her face.

“I’m sure you now realize that you were led here.”

That she did.

“Next time, Miss Richards,” the voice said. “It will be bullets.”

Anger surged through her, but there was little she could do. Her muscles were still convulsing.

The foot came off her cheek.

“Lie still,” he said, “and listen.” The man was behind her and close. “Don’t turn your head, unless you want more electricity.”

She lay silent, wishing her muscles would respond to her brain.

“We told Antrim. Now we’re telling you. Leave this be.”