There was a murmur of ascent and Dr. Leeds seemed satisfied. “He may not remember at first. Your concentration and assistance is crucial. Leave off all doubt now. Close your eyes and focus your thoughts.”
Higgins did as he was told, but found he could not concentrate in the way Dr. Leeds wanted him to. His thoughts were swirling, not around the spirit realm, but the heaven of Elisabeth’s touch. He gripped her hand, as if to squeeze his emotions into her, barely cognizant of Dr. Leeds’ mumbled incantations.
“Alex,” Elisabeth whispered urgently. “Open your eyes. Look!”
He obeyed, looking into her eyes, but she nodded toward the center of the table. Higgins nearly fainted when he saw the figure there, hovering in the mist above the table's surface.
Though it was only a few inches in height, Higgins had no trouble making out the apparition; the details of its face and dress were vivid. He was unquestionably looking at the likeness of a Spanish conquistador. The crescent helmet concealed the face of the specter, but he knew that it must be Hernando Fontaneda.
“¿Quien estoy?” whispered Dr. Leeds, his voice strangely altered. “Diga me. Quiero saber.”
“He is speaking Spanish,” gasped one of the men at the table. “He wants to know who he is?”
No one seemed willing to answer. Realizing that Dr. Leeds was acting as a medium Higgins, in a trembling voice, supplied the name.
“Si. Recuerdo.” whispered Leeds. “A ver, ¿a dónde estoy? Me parece que es bien oscuro.”
“He remembers,” translated the same man. “He wants to know where he is. He says he it is very dark there.”
“You died,” replied Elisabeth. “Don't you remember?”
“No.” The voice issuing from Leeds’ mouth switched to deeply accented English. “How did I die? Do you know?”
No one could give him an answer, not even Higgins.
“Tell me more. I might remember. There was a man…King was his name. I was with him, but I can't remember…” Leeds’ eyes fluttered open and he stared directly at Higgins. “You know,” he said, still speaking in the Spaniard's voice. “Tell me. Where did I die?”
Wide-eyed and trembling, Higgins stared at the apparition. Elisabeth's gentle touch on his arm prompted him and he opened his mouth to answer.
The dining area was a shambles from Kismet's pursuit of the knife-wielding intruder. Icing from destroyed pastries seemed to be everywhere. Moreover, some of the passengers acting in blind terror had overturned their tables, spilling plates, silverware and food, and were crouched down behind them. The waiters were conferring with the ship's officers about the cause of the mayhem. One of them spotted Kismet and identified him as one of the perpetrators. The officers moved to question him, but stopped short when they saw the prodigious blade of the serpentine knife held in his right fist.
Kismet dismissed them with an exasperated gesture. “Where are the people who were sitting there?” He pointed to the table where he had left Higgins, in the company of Dr. Leeds and Elisabeth Neuell.
“In the conference room,” replied a waiter, before anyone could think to silence him. “For the séance.”
“Sir,” interjected one of the senior officers, trying to be calm and authoritative. “I must ask you to surrender your weapon.”
Shaking his head, more out of frustration than defiance, he pushed through the group and headed for the exit.
The conference room was dark, lit only by a few candles. The perfect place for an ambush, Kismet decided. He spied Higgins at a table, with Elisabeth and Leeds. The latter was mumbling something, while in the center of the table, projected onto a cloud of mist was the likeness of a gaudy conquistador; a product of amateurish make-up and costume, smoke and mirrors. He stalked over to the table, unnoticed by all except of the architect of the charade himself.
Leeds’ icy gaze defied his stare, but Kismet was unmoved by Leeds’ parlor tricks. Higgins opened his mouth to speak, to reveal the location from which the final correspondence with Henry Fortune had originated, but Kismet cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
The gathering looked up in surprise and Elisabeth breathed a vehement curse. Dr. Leeds folded his arms casually across his chest. “You are disturbing the spirits, Kismet”.
“Perhaps the spirits can answer my questions. I'd like to know why the man that ransacked my room and tried to kill me was wearing a ring with an Ouroboros. Kind of like the one you’re wearing, Dr. Leeds.”
Leeds remained impassive. “You’re imagining things, Kismet.”
“I didn’t imagine this.” Kismet thrust the knife out, over the center of the table, and then stabbed downward, into the heart of the apparition. The blade sliced through the vapors, shattering a mirror concealed underneath, and causing the ghost to dissolve. The gathering dispersed, frightened by the display of violence, but Kismet wasn’t finished. Grabbing hold of the table and shoving it out of the way, he advanced on Leeds.
Leeds did not cower, but instead threw something to the floor, a glass vial that shattered and began spewing thick smoke. A screen of dense fog suddenly rose up around Kismet. He waved his hand to fan away the acrid fumes, and pushed forward undaunted, thrusting his hands out to the place where Leeds was sitting.
His hands closed on empty air. Dr. Leeds and Elisabeth Neuell had vanished.
SEVEN
Unfair though it was, Kismet offered no protest when the captain ordered him off the ship. He was eager to be done with The Star of Muara, eager to put the whole sordid affair behind him, and most of all, eager to take up the search for Henry Fortune’s wondrous cavern.
In the early hours of the morning following the disastrous séance, Kismet, along with Higgins and his daughter, boarded a helicopter for the mainland. A few hours later, they were on a trans-Pacific flight to Los Angeles, and because of a trick of geography, arrived in the United States on the evening of the calendar day before they left. They spent a night in a hotel near LAX, but early the next day were back in the air.
The long flights gave Kismet time to think, but his mind was not occupied with fantasies of discovering the source of immortality. Rather, he kept replaying what the man with the silver tooth had said: You really have no idea. It's almost a pity that you'll die ignorant…Killing you is something I've wanted for a long time.
Kismet knew of one very good possible explanation for the man’s hostility: Dr. Leeds and his thug were part of the Prometheus group. And if Prometheus was after the Fountain of Youth…or the Seed from the Tree of Life or whatever else…then Kismet was determined to beat them there.
But as much as he wanted to believe that Dr. Leeds would somehow lead him to the answers he had been seeking for half his life, he knew that the explanation wasn’t a perfect fit. In his only meaningful encounter with Prometheus, he had been led to believe that he was somehow protected, or at least that Prometheus had no interest in taking direct action against him. He had never been able to fathom the why of it, aside from a cryptic intimation that his mother might somehow be a player in the drama, though even that information was suspect. In any case, his prior knowledge of Prometheus’ goals certainly didn’t square with Leeds’ silver-toothed goon’s lethal grudge. So where did that leave him?
After collecting their luggage from the carousel at La Guardia Airport, Kismet hailed a taxi and the three of them crowded into its rear seat. Little was said as the hired car fought traffic through Queens and across the Williamsburg Bridge; the three had virtually exhausted every avenue of discussion during long hours spent in airport lobbies.