The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp 3)

“I’ve already left her a voice mail.”

There was another, longer pause.

“Dr. Smith is currently indisposed,” the operator said.

“That’s the problem,” I said. “So am I.”

I hung up and dialed Mr. Needlemier’s number. I didn’t have any money, so I made the call collect. On my first try, he refused to accept the charges. I called right back and the operator came on the line and relayed the message that my party didn’t appreciate prank calls and if I persisted he would report me to the FCC. The third time was the charm. I told the operator my name was Samuel St. John and he accepted the call.

“Mr. Needlemier, it’s me, Alfred Kropp. Don’t hang up.”

“Alfred Kropp is dead. I should know; I buried him myself. Well, not personally, but I was there.”

“I can prove it’s me.” I bit my lower lip, trying to think of a way to prove it.

“The picture,” I said finally. “You remember the picture you gave me at the hospital? You found it in the ashes after Jourdain Garmot burned my father’s house down. It was me and my mom . . .”

He didn’t say anything. The silence dragged out.

“Oh my dear Lord!” he whispered. “Alfred!” His voice climbed an octave, cracking on the last syllable. “Alfred, this is

extraordinary!”

“OIPEP faked my death,” I said. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

“They brought me your ashes in a can! A tin can!”

“Really? Look, Mr. Needlemier, I need to find—”

“I was in quite a quandary. Your mother is buried in Ohio and your father here in Knoxville, and we never discussed where you might prefer to be laid to rest.”

“Right,” I said. “Mr. Needlemier, here’s the thing: I’ve extracted myself from the extraction and—”

“In the end I buried you in Ohio, next to your mother.

You met Bernard only once as I recall and knew him only after his death—or of him, I should say—so burying you here would be a reunion of strangers or near strangers.”

“That’s good,” I said. “You did the right thing. Here’s why I called—”

“A lovely service, Alfred. Cold, but clear skies and not a bit of breeze . . .”

“Who came?” I asked. He had sucked me in.

“It was—an intimate gathering. Myself, the priest, of course, and a gentleman by the name of Vosch, who told me he had worked closely with you on a special project.”

“That would be the attempted beheading,” I said. Only three people at my funeral? One, the priest, had to be there, and the other guy was there for his job, which was to kill me. “Vosch works for Jourdain Garmot. Probably there to make sure I was really dead. What about Samuel? He was there, right?”

Mr. Needlemier didn’t give me a direct answer. “The last time I saw Samuel was after his release from the hospital. He asked all sorts of questions about the arson and the suit involving the estate. Your death has complicated things a bit and nothing’s been decided, but you see you have no heirs, no living relatives. Jourdain has a good chance now of seizing control of your father’s business as well as the estate . . .”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I don’t care about that anymore. I need to find Samuel.”

“Well, he did give me his cell phone number should I need it.”

He gave me the number.

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew. He was going after Jourdain. He was going to kill him, if he hadn’t already, or die trying.

“Not a hint, but between us, Alfred, I have the impression he doesn’t like me very much.”