The Hunt for Excalibur

24 Lost

To Sam’s dismay, Nina elected to sleep in the living room with Brian, leaving him abandoned in his cold, big bed.

“I cannot believe Purdue is the only one scoring tonight,” Sam moaned.

“He is a child, Sam,” she whispered. “I cannot let him sleep alone on the couch like that. We can catch up on… pleasantries… once he is safe again. Come on. He is terrified and lonely.”

“And apparently invincible,” Sam reasoned like a juvenile. Had Nina not been so annoyed with his whining and insensitivity to Brian’s plight, she may well have found Sam’s argument cute — and valid.

“Just tonight. Tomorrow night, if I am still in Edinburgh…” She tried to finish the sentence, but Sam’s lips locked over hers. It had been too long since he spent some time with Nina, other than babysitting strangers and attending mutual parties.

“There is someone by the window,” Brian said suddenly, breaking things up and pissing Sam off to the fullest. The boy was standing in the corridor, looking through the open door of Sam’s bedroom. In his arms, he held Bruich. The cat was completely content in Brian’s embrace.

“That is my cat,” Sam sneered.

“Sam, shut it,” Nina whispered. “I will come see what you are talking about.”

She left the room, leaving Sam vexed and frustrated. The boy smiled at Sam before he followed Nina, an open invitation to warfare, in Sam’s opinion. “Where is your stupid scabbard now?”

“In the living room,” Brian replied.

“Put it on. You are going to need it, you brat,” Sam threatened playfully. He lunged forward in a mock attack that had the boy squealing with glee. Sam laughed and yelled out after him. “She is too old for you!”

As Sam got undressed and ready for bed, he decided to admit defeat for this night. However, by no means was he going to let the pre-teen brat steal Nina’s attention. Besides, the boy had big ones for taking all that initiative, Sam had to admit to himself. That was admirable in his book, so he would let this one slide. At last, Sam’s good night cry out went unanswered, a testament to how exhausted all of them were. Apart from the television’s unending babbling, the apartment fell silent for the night, and Sam was fast asleep before his eyes were properly shut.

Nina felt her lips turn ice cold. Still wrapped in a dream state, she clearly felt as if she had dipped the bottom of her face in a pool of ice water. Trying to pull out her face was futile. Was this a dream? She tried once more to pull her face out of the cold water, but someone held it there. When she tried to utter a scream, her jaw remained dead and heavy. It was a moment later that she came to, realizing what was happening.

Against the wall, she could see the Jules Joseph Lefebvre painting gifted to Sam by Purdue after the trying Inca adventure. This was proof that she was still in Sam’s apartment, but other than the painting serving as her anchor for the ensuing chaos, she could find nothing else familiar. Somewhere in the haze, she heard two men conversing in Greek. A man’s hand was locked over her mouth and nose while his other hand was firmly cradling the back of her skull in a vice grip. Much as Nina struggled and fought, she was no match for Yiannis.

Deep into her nostrils, the choking odor of chloroform invaded her lungs, making her whole body as frigid as her face. No matter how Nina tried to hold her breath, it was as if the vapors found their own way in. Her throat felt thick as her eyelids fell shut. To her left, her phone was charging. Nina’s hands explored the thick carpet until she could feel her phone lying under the sofa, where she had plugged it into the wall socket. Feeling the buttons with her fingertips, she tried to find Sam’s speed dial before the chloroform could do its thing.

Accidentally she pressed the voice recorder, capturing some of the conversation. But she kept trying to find the number 7 button — Sam’s speed dial code. Vaguely she could hear Brian’s whimpers, but she could not find him. She succumbed to the drug within a minute, making it easier for Yiannis and Kostas to carry her and the boy out through the front door.

Sam’s brain jolted from the shrieking sound of his cell phone ring tone. Inadvertently, he sat up straight in his bed. “What the fuck!” he whined, wiping his eyes. The caller ID said it was Nina.

“I am going to beat the snot out of you, Brian!” he yelled. Convinced that the boy was playing a prank, Sam switched off his phone and went back to sleep. A soft, hefty weight fell on his chest, waking him again. It moved around on his chest, keeping him from slumbering. Sam’s eyes shot open to the sight of Bruichladdich making himself comfortable.

“Hey, grew tired of the brat, did you?” Sam asked his cat. He smiled for the small victory, and ran his hands through the big feline’s fur. Massaging the cat’s pelt was soothing for Sam too. He started dozing away when his hands felt the awful wetness o the cat’s back. Again, Sam shot up in bed, having a terrible image of blood in his head, but there was no blood. Instead, he smelled whisky on his cat. This was most peculiar, prompting him to investigate the source of the wetness.

When Sam stumbled into his living room, he found both couches vacant and the liquor bottles on the counter toppled. Where Nina was sleeping on the floor, he could see her phone blinking from under the couch. Although Sam was not someone to jump the gun, he immediately felt a dreadful notion grasp his heart.

“No,” was all he said, before he seized Nina’s phone. She had called his number but a few minutes before. “Jesus, no!” His eyes grew wide as he looked around the living room, the stench of chloroform still prevalent. The large sheath the child took everywhere with him was also missing.

Heaving, his chest could not contain his racing heart as he checked Nina’s phone for new activity. Apart from her missed call to his phone, there was a voice message captured. With trembling fingers, Sam navigated his way to the clip and listened. He recognized the language, but naturally had no idea what the voices said. All he could discern was the street name.

An idea sprung to mind and Sam quickly ran for his landline phone. He could hardly control his shaking hands, but he carefully punched in the number of an old acquaintance whose number he had in his rolodex. “Prof. Helen Barry?” he stammered. He could not believe that she actually answered the phone at this time of night.

“Yes?” she affirmed. “Who is this?”

“Prof. Barry, this is Sam Cleave. We worked together on the location of the Medusa Stone a few years ago,” he rambled.

“Oh, yes, the journalist. Are you in New Zealand?” she asked.

“N-no? Why?” Sam frowned, trying to get past the banalities.

She raised her voice and snapped, “Because only there it would be a good time to call me at my house! Do you have any idea what the time is?”

“Prof. Barry, I am deeply sorry, but I need your help right fucking now, otherwise three women and a boy will die,” Sam begged. “Please! Please.” His tone was one of hopeless panic, not aggression, which was why Helen Barry allowed him the benefit of the doubt.

“Okay, okay, what do you need?” she asked.

“If I play you a voice clip in Greek, can you translate it? It is a matter of seconds long, and what is said here could help me find the victims,” Sam explained hastily.

“Shoot,” she answered. “I am listening.”

He played the short eleven-second clip, holding the speaker of Nina’s phone to the mouthpiece of the landline. When it was complete, he listened to the professor. She took a moment and then requested, “Again.” Sam obliged, wishing he could speed up time to get the answer already. He looked at the wall clock. It was almost dawn.

“Sam?” she said.

“Aye.”

“Listen, I cannot make out everything. It is a bad recording, but what I do hear is that they are supposed to go to the blue house of Court or with Court, something,” she started.

“A courthouse?” he asked quickly.

“No, no. Listen. From what they say, they use ‘court’ as a noun or name, and they are going to a blue house on Maverick Street. That is all they say between the two of them. Sounds like they were arguing where to go first, but that could just be my bad judgement, you know, being practically still asleep and all,” she ranted.

“Yes, yes, I apologize profusely, Professor. And I am eternally grateful for the help,” Sam said.

“Good. Now go and help those people,” she said, and just hanged up on him.

He jotted down ‘courthouse’ and ‘blue house’. From his cell phone, he looked up Maverick Street and found that it was in a low rent neighborhood in Glasgow. With his trusty notebook containing vital information, Sam pulled on his jeans and sweater in record time. With only three hours sleep and a night of drink barely slept out, he jumped in his truck and headed for Glasgow. The meager sun bore up through the clouds on the horizon, taking a peek at the world before being smothered for the rest of the rainy day.