“Geez, Terry, mixing your whisky with Coke is not exactly distinguished,” Sam lectured in his semi-sober voice, “but I shall pardon your middle school antics…”
“Aye!”
“…just because you came through,” Sam smiled as he raised his glass and with no time wasted, threw back his quota with zeal.
“Wait! I still want to propose a toast, you arse!” Terry cried, disappointed. His father never let him get a toast in either and he just loved thinking up insignificant stuff to drink to. But Sam Cleave was a man of the moment and he swallowed before Terry could finish his words of protest.
“Shit, it’s not the same to toast alone.”
Sam slammed down his glass with a terrible wince at the putrid taste, but he felt accomplished and waited for Terry to make his toast. Terry did not feel like it anymore. It was a serious downer. He watched Sam’s smile disappear, his eyes blinking profusely as if he was trying to understand something unfathomable.
“What’s wrong?” Terry asked with his glass suspended in the air.
Sam began to pant wildly, his body moist once more, but this time from perspiration. By the end of his hair that curled up in small coils on his shoulders Terry could discern the quivering of his locks, yet Sam stood frozen in the spot, his face suspended in horror. Grinding his teeth from the hell in his gullet spreading through his chest like a vice grip on his heart, Sam suddenly gripped his chest.
“Sam?”
“What the fuck did you give me?” Sam screamed when his lungs finally filled with enough oxygen.
“What do you mean? I found the Coke in my backpack and some leftover whisky in one of your flasks,” Terry revealed.
Sam’s blood turned to ice at Terry’s words. All of a sudden he was stone cold sober and a steel wire of sheer panic wove a net over his skull.
“Christ! Terry, you just killed me, you fucking imbecile!” Sam screamed furiously, but his voice came out withered and hardly audible. With his one hand he grabbed Terry’s glass and smashed it in the sink. He wanted to strangle the unwitting young man for his error, but his logic reminded him that Terry had no way of knowing about the contents of the sinister vial.
“What! What did I do? Sam? Sam?” Terry asked in a frenzy, while his host collapsed in front of him. Sam was clutching his heart, his jugular a welt under his jawline and his muscles strained in contraction.
“Oh my god, Sam! What do I do? What do I do?” Terry shouted, sunk to his knees next to Sam, his inept hands lightly tapping at Sam’s convulsing body in an attempt to help, but he did not know where to touch, what to do. Finally, his instinct kicked in and he raced for his cell phone, but on trying to call his father at the pub, realized that he was out of money to call. He grabbed Sam’s cell phone, but it was turned off.
“Sam! What is your cell phone password?” he shouted to the writhing man he thought he had poisoned, who was dying on the kitchen floor.
“Veritas!” Sam forced in his loudest voice, which was no more than a quivering whimper. Terry tapped in the Latin password and gained access, but he had to wait for a signal. Outside the weather was merciless and a lonely sense of utter terror gripped Terry as he dialed, but his father’s number was engaged. He rushed over to Sam, who was slowly losing consciousness.
“Sam! Sam, who do I call?” he urged frantically.
“Nin-n-na. C-all Nina.”
Terry dialed her number and waited, watching the journalist’s eyes grow darker as his lids fought not to close.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Terry grunted. Now he could feel his frustration mount, trumping even his fear. If all else failed he would just bang down the door of a neighbor. “Sam, Nina’s number is out of commission. Switched off, or something.”
Sam shook his head, “Can’t be. No-not Nina.”
“Who else?”
“Val. Call V-al. Her husband w-will pick up,” Sam gasped, and with that, his eyes closed and his chest sank all the way down, still as a marble slab.
Chapter 21
In the smoky room no bigger than a public toilet in the slums of Germany, the old man sat crouched over on his bed. It was a misty morning outside his window where his small apartment room overlooked the outskirts of Glasgow. For a man with his heritage and an affluent family who funded his prosperous career as a literary genius and teacher in World War II Germany, his accommodations were dreadfully modest.
He was not here in Scotland for keeps, but he loved the culture and the antiquity of the castles of the country. Its history was rich and bloody, riddled with battles and cries of freedom, something he was intimately familiar with. Although at a ripe age, he was astute in his dealings, opting for an obscure life far removed from the splendor of his younger years. Still he got to utilize his studies, his decades of knowledge in fields that interested him. For all this, he was grateful, not having to slave in front of some thankless group of arrogant mites in some University lecture hall until he keels over in a high back chair with a glass of brandy at the age of 86 or something.
His feet ached, deformed tarsal claws, plagued by bunions leading into brittle, yellow toenails that he placed gently into the porcelain bowl of steaming water, infused with Epsom Salts and lavender. A crooked groan escaped him as he sank his aged feet in and immersed them both. Painful bolts of nerve twitches shot through his ankles and lower calves, evoking a moan of agony from him. On his withered frame, his white vest folded like a half mast flag, only touching him where the bones protruded under malnourished skin. On his scalp, there was nothing but grey fluff forming a halo when the morning light hit him from behind, but his body showed its old age with the longish white hair on his back, shoulders and chest.
He sighed deeply, his scowl proof of his conscience.
Helping to set Nina up for her abduction by the Order left him feeling empty and sullen, but he had to comply or there would have been consequences. As this thought passed through his mind, he could hear his mother’s voice as his own reason, “This is what you get for getting involved with them, Hermann. It is your own doing when you allow yourself to be a puppet for that caliber of company.” A sad smile of defeat crept across his thin lips as he twitched his toes in the comfort of the water.
It had been raining so much lately, even for Scotland, and he wondered if there was some design which wished to deter him from meeting with Lita Røderic today, to receive his financial rewards for the successful capture of The Brotherhood’s pet, Dr. Nina Gould. For years, Herman Lockhart had been conducting business in this way, regardless of the client involved. He did own a bank account, but only used it for utilities and bills. Every questionable or secret transaction was concluded with an exchange of cold hard cash in his pocket. Besides, by the looks of him, no-one would ever have guessed how wealthy he was.
Professor Røderic had no qualms with his old world ways. In fact, she found it amusing that he still walked in the mid-20th Century and refused to catch up to new things, an endearing quality in her opinion. At times, she could really be quite likable, he thought to himself as he dressed, fixing his cravat just so like his Greta used to.
He gathered up his fedora and buttoned his coat and just before he left, he looked back into his room once more to make sure it was impeccable in his wake. It was a remnant of a terrible childhood, which preceded a teenage life not much the better. With his one hand securing his hat in the strong gust outside his lodging, he waited for his shuttle to collect him. An address was left at the reception desk of his current residence. In an envelope it contained a card with the name of an airstrip where he was to go. From there, he would be flown to the island of Coll, where the tall tyrant kept a fortress.