One by one, the club members all passed the age Kevan was when he died. All but one.
Dudley turned his attention to Walcott, feeling a surge of hatred and a deep rush of anger. “So what’s the decision? Don’t keep me waiting, old man. It’s me birthday today. Twenty feckin’ seven, I am.”
In the end it all went exactly as Dudley expected it to. By the skin of its teeth. But it was a bad situation all around. His mother, the Devil take her, used to say, “Yer can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear”, and that was how he felt right now. Walking the National Mall without weapons he felt naked, exposed. So much space. So much greenery. So much regimented tourism it made him feel sick. He’d taken Byram and McLain with him; extra eyes and ears in case Walcott tried anything. But he needn’t have bothered. Walcott was a pure, dyed-in-the-wool family man. He’d do anything to protect them.
Dudley wished he could be there to see them die. But that old bleeder, Malachi, had earned the honor. No mind, Daley’s gonna record it.
At last the dull red brick façade of the Smithsonian Castle came into view, all spires and arches, windows and a great castle turret. Walcott headed straight up the steps toward the entrance but Dudley held him back.
“Remember now, be a grand fella.”
“Sure, sure. I know what’s at stake here.”
Dudley held out his cellphone, which held a photo of Walcott’s wife. “And don’t forget.”
Inside, they traversed a polished floor along a corridor that gave Dudley the impression it shone with gold. Clearly, it was a lighting trick, but the interior impression of the castle was one of enveloping warmth and security.
Dudley shepherded Walcott past a lone guard who offered only a flicker of recognition. Further they went, making use of an elevator and then a non-public corridor, this one painted bright white and looking as sparse as a monk’s cell. Now, Walcott led them down a clanking spiral staircase, moving deeper into the castle’s innards. Dudley had noticed a sign that read Archives several minutes ago.
“Yer sure?”
“It’s more than a secret. It was never meant to be found. At first a treasure, then secreted away after the tragedy, and now largely forgotten. There are hundreds of old treasures like this around the world, gathering dust, forgotten about by their owners. Who knows if they will ever again see the light of day?”
Dudley thought, What tragedy? But Walcott spoke again before he could ask. “Almost there.”
The now-familiar white walls surrounded them, the space large and full of rows and rows of shelves, all crammed full with sealed cardboard, wooden and metal boxes of every variety, a mishmash of hundreds of shapes and sizes. Dudley saw two other people wandering the stacks.
He leaned in to Walcott. “They gonna be a problem?”
“No. No. Your problem would really have been getting out once you produce and fill your backpacks. But I have an override card. As I said before, once we leave the building I can’t stop the guards challenging us. Even I can only go so far.”
Dudley patted him on the head. “Aye, we’re countin’ on it, old man.”
Byram and McLain gave him feral grins.
Walcott pushed further down the rows, entering an area where the shelves were made of old wood and spaced further apart to accommodate larger items. A fusty smell filled the air, the odor of ancient things. Dust motes spun in the air, visible within the beams of light cast by recessed bulbs in the windowless room. The only sounds were their careful footfalls. Dudley fancied they were way under the red-brick castle by now, possibly even branched out toward the national mall.
“How much further?”
“Not far now.”
Walcott walked with hunched shoulders, following the route by memory alone. His shoes started to leave a dusty trail along the floor. When Dudley brushed against a shelf, a bloom of dust puffed out. They walked through the deepest places of the Smithsonian, seemingly untouched for years and even unremembered by many. Dudley understood it now; he saw how easily something might fade away into history, might be allowed to do just that. Hide it away. Shove it in a box. Place it out of sight, deep, deep in the catacombs. Essentially it was the same principle as storing a container in an attic. Over the years, you forgot what was there and how important or sentimental it might be to you.
Until you revisited.
Walcott finally halted before a set of uneven shelves, their coating of dust attesting to the fact that nothing nearby had been touched for many years. Dudley saw no trails in the fine coating, no fingerprints.
Walcott hesitated. “This… this is ancient history,” he said. “Almost a million years old. It is the oldest known form of primitive man.”
“And what have yer done with it in fifty years? Shoved it in a museum? Naw, not even that.” Dudley gestured angrily. “Hurry up.”
“What can you possibly hope to accomplish with it? Make money? At least here, it’s safe.”
Dudley wasn’t a patient man at the best of times. Without any further warnings he punched Walcott hard behind the left ear, sending the man to his knees.
“Yer wife’s next, pal.”
Walcott struggled upright, reaching out for the skew-whiff shelving. “Help me,” he said. “It’s this one.”
Byram and McLain took hold of a wooden box and lifted it easily to the floor. Walcott bent over, lifting the lid.
“No key?” Dudley asked suspiciously.
“It would only draw attention,” Walcott murmured.
Inside the shabby-appearing but surprisingly well-made box was a layer of foam, which Walcott removed, and then the old bones gleamed up at them. Dudley didn’t stand on ceremony, just whipped out his backpack and forced several of the bones inside. Byram and McLain did the same. Walcott winced with every clink.
“You should wrap them, at least. Don’t you know what they—”
Dudley’s hand struck as fast as a viper’s head, grabbing the Secretary by the collar and drawing him close. “I don’t care. I don’t give a rat’s arse. Shut yer face and do yer job. And yer may get to live.”
Walcott tucked his protestations and grimaces away. The three Irishmen filled their backpacks and strapped them on. Walcott then replaced the wooden box and tried to spread a little dust over the shelves to preserve their untouched appearance. Dudley grabbed his arm and threw him ahead.
“Get on with it.”
Back through the maze of shelves they went, silence their only companion. Timeworn boxes surrounded them, each one a relic, making Dudley wonder just what other treasures the Smithsonian might have secreted down here. If he had time to make Walcott talk, the 27-Club might be able to find enough valuable “lost” artefacts to fund a few operations of their own.
Later.
He stored that nugget away. Truth be told, it was a good reason to keep Walcott alive. Maybe they should show willing and let the rest of his family live too. It would make coming back in a few months so very much sweeter. And productive.
Dudley felt his face creasing into a grin and wiped it clean. This wasn’t the time. Motes of dust swirled and eddied around him, micro-hurricanes displaced by the fury of his passing. Walcott stuck faithfully to the center of the passage but the Irishmen brushed against boxes and shelves and caused more than a little damage. Walcott got a move on. At last they reached the more populated area and aimed toward the metal staircase and then an elevator. Walcott attracted little attention and even those who did recognize him only nodded. The Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution was an important man, appointed by the Board of Regents. Probably not the kind of man most employees felt content to stop and discuss their evening plans or crappy commute with.