“He gives everyone that impression,” I said. “Does he know I died?”
“He left before I received the news . . . I don’t know, Alfred.”
“But Vosch was at my funeral. So Jourdain thinks I’m dead. He’ll tell Sam and maybe that will save his life. I’m not sure. Samuel might kill him anyway, if he hasn’t already.”
But I hoped I was in time to stop it. I didn’t think Jourdain was evil—just messed up by his father’s murder and he had thought taking me out would bring him some peace. I knew better.
“Well,” Mr. Needlemier said. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but it certainly would solve all your difficulties if Jourdain were, um, shall we say, in your current perceived condition—but in actuality.”
I sighed. Lawyers. “Not all my difficulties, Mr. Needlemier. Not by a long shot. That reminds me. I need cash. There’s a Western Union here at the airport. Can you wire me some?”
“Some what?”
“Cash, Mr. Needlemier. Money. We need clothes and plane tickets—and food. We haven’t eaten in almost two days.”
“We?”
“Me and Ashley.”
“Ah, the lovely secret agent person. Of course, Alfred. I’ll wire you as much as you need. Are you flying back to Knoxville?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s the first place he’ll look.”
“Jourdain?”
“Nueve.”
“Nueve!”
“Well, both. Jourdain and Nueve. The list keeps growing.”
“Ah, so that’s what you meant by difficulties. I thought perhaps you were referring to the Skull.”
“The Skull?”
“The Thirteenth Skull. You asked me about it at the airport, remember? Well, it tweaked my curiosity, so I took it upon myself to find out a little more about it.”
“And?”
“And I did.”
“No, I meant what did you find out?”
“The Thirteenth Skull may be another name for the Skull of Doom.”
“The Skull of Doom?”
“Or then again, perhaps not. The literature is quite contradictory and vague, like all such literature, but utterly fascinating . . .”
“Mr. Needlemier,” I said. “I’m very tired and very hungry and I’m running out of time.”
“Of course. In a nutshell, there are, or were, thirteen skulls, fashioned from solid crystal sometime in the late first century. By whom and for what purpose no one seems to agree, but one legend that I thought you might find interesting—or thought you would if you were alive, because of course at the time I thought you weren’t—one legend has it that the Skulls were made by Merlin—”
“Merlin,” I echoed, remembering my dream in cabin thirteen. The old man unzipping his head and ripping out his skull. “Touch.”
“The magician. From Camelot . . .”
“I know who Merlin is, Mr. Needlemier.”