The Daykeeper's Grimoire (8 page)

My horrified expression makes him smile. This is surreal; it is all so out of the blue that it’s taking too long to register and I’m speechless, drained of all response.

Then he says, “And don’t go crying to the old
frau
downstairs, either, or she might go the way of her son-in-law.”

Now I’m not breathing at all.

Instead of turning, he walks out sideways and backwards, like some evil crab, never breaking eye contact with me. As he closes the door he says, “We never spoke,
verstehen
?
”

I nod again and hold back tears until the door is closed. Then I run over and fasten the big iron bolt on the door. Falling to the ground, I unleash the silent, heaving cry that I haven’t done for years. I cry until no tears are left, until I am cold and empty on the stone floor.

I don’t know how much time passes before I am able to pull myself together. I try to wrap my brain around all of this, but it’s not making sense. I can’t put together what it means that he would have “lost track” of my dad, how he would know about Mrs. Findlay’s son-in-law, and what he would think that I’m up to. Could this guy have found out what I’ve been decoding?

Remembering the tattoo, I jump up to get my sketchbook to draw what I can of it before I forget the image. It was all black, a spider web made from lines over a spiral, and then the letters “FRO” dangling from a piece of the web.

Once I’ve captured it, I go to my computer to see if I can find anything about FRO. I search a bunch of different ways, but only when I combine FRO + spider web + secret, do I find one small reference about a group called
Fraternitas Regni Occulti
. Supposedly formed way back in the days of the Roman Empire, this mythological
Fraternitas
is supposed to be the secret society of all secret societies. Their whole goal is to place the world’s power in the hands of a few people who run banks, the government, and the military. Their symbol: a spider web divided into twelve segments
.

It has to be the same group—it would be too much of a coincidence that their initials would be FRO and their symbol the spider web—but I can’t figure out what on earth a supposedly mythological secret society would have to do with me, this place, or my dad.

My brain is so scrambled I can’t think anymore, so I double-check the bolt on the door, lock all the shutters on my windows, and crawl up onto my bed. I fully expect not to sleep a wink, so I prop myself up with pillows and wait for Dad to get home.

Make me an orphan? What the hell?

I’m disoriented when I hear Mrs. Findlay on the intercom telling us to wake up already. It’s still pitch dark in my room because of the shuttered windows, but when I look at the clock I see it’s 9:30. It takes a moment to remember what happened last night, and when I do, I’m surprised I was even able to fall asleep.

I jump at a knock on my door. “Wake up sleepyhead,” Dad mumbles. “We both overslept.”

Excited to hear Dad’s voice, I bound out of bed, unbolt the door, and give him a huge bear hug. I have
never
been so happy to see him.

“Easy, tiger, I’m a little fragile today,” he says.

I look up at him; he’s looking kind of scrappy. “What’s up, Dad? You sick?”

He rubs his face with both hands and then runs them through his rumpled hair. “Thomas took me out to the pubs last night,” he says with a gravelly voice. “I think everyone in the village bought me a draft …”

“Come on,” I say, grabbing his hand. “You just need a big plate of runny eggs and a broiled tomato!”

Dad looks like he might barf and says, “I think I’ll stick with dry toast and coffee.”

I don’t let go of Dad’s hand the whole way down, but he’s too groggy to think it’s weird.

When we get to the kitchen, I peer in to make sure that Barend Schlacter isn’t in there. Mrs. Findlay shakes her head when Dad walks in.

“Thomas told me you had quite a time last night,” she says with a smile.

“Pretty rowdy bunch, for old men …”

“’Tis the scotch and ale that keeps them young!”

I glance over at Dad. “Looks like it put twenty years on you, though.”

“Hot chocolate, Caity?” Mrs. Findlay asks.

“Yes, please. Hey, Dad, did you get that email from Uncle Li? He’s coming today.”

Dad drops his face into his hands, and then he looks back up at me. “I’m so embarrassed about this, but there is just no way I can go get him in the state I’m in. I was thinking, perhaps you could be the best daughter in the world and go with Thomas to pick him up?”

“Sure, no problem,” I say. “I wanted him to check the feng shui of my bedroom anyway.”

This will be good, I think to myself. Being with Thomas and Uncle Li will keep me safe from that psychopath Barend Schlacter in case he only pretends to leave Breidablik.

A look of relief washes over Dad’s face and he gives me a big hug. “You’re the best, Caity,” he says as he kisses the top of my head.

“And you’re the stinkiest, Dad.”

“Aye,” adds Mrs. Findlay, plugging her nose. “I noticed the pub stench, too.”

“That’s my cue to have a bath and a long nap,” Dad says, grabbing coffee and toast to go.

I walk over to the empty cubby. “Where’s Mr. P?” I ask.

“Thomas put him in the library, the kitchen is being inspected this—”

The door opens and Barend Schlacter walks in. My whole body tenses and I have to concentrate in order to breathe.

“
Guten morgen
, ladies,” he says with a smile. One of his front teeth is dead and has been capped so it’s a different color than the rest of his teeth. He’s so vile.

He walks over to me, squeezes my shoulder gently, and says, “Sleep well?”

I’m frozen and can’t say a word. Mrs. Findlay, still working for the five-star rating, starts lavishing him with compliments and asks what he wants for breakfast; she says she’ll cook him anything his heart desires. He takes full advantage of her sucking up and asks for blintzes.

I listen to this like they are speaking underwater, or like they are aliens that I’m examining. I am completely detached, watching from afar.

Who is this guy, anyway?

While they yammer on, an idea springs to mind. I walk over to the desk in the corner of the kitchen and pretend to grab a pen while sneaking a piece of tape from the industrial-sized tape dispenser. Fortunately Barend Schlacter’s back is to me, and Mrs. Findlay is concentrating on making blintz batter. I reach up to the intercom panel and tape down the talk button for the guest wing. When I see that it’s secure, I leave with a quick goodbye. Barend Schlacter turns and winks at me and I have to breathe deeply to keep my hot chocolate from coming back up.

I figure this is my one and only chance to get more information on this guy, so after I pick up Mr. Papers from the library, I suck up my nerve and walk to the guest wing to Barend Schlacter’s room. I honestly don’t know where I’m getting the courage to do this.

Turning up the intercom in the hallway outside his room, I listen to them in the kitchen arguing playfully about the best blintz fillings. I figure as soon as I hear him leave I’ll still have a few minutes to scramble away.

When I open his door, Mr. Papers runs right in and perches on the window sill. There’s not much to see, just a small overnight bag with his clothes in it. No briefcase, no laptop, no pad or pen, nothing. Then I peek into his bathroom and see gold; his cell phone is in there charging.

Sweating and shaking, I open his phone to look at his contacts. There isn’t one single person or phone number listed! So I look at the last number dialed. Strangely, it has a San Francisco area code. I jot it down on my hand with the pen I took from the kitchen, then look at his call log and see that the last ten calls received are all from this same San Francisco number.

I put the phone exactly as it was and go back into the room. Mr. Papers has jumped up to the top of the tall armoire in the corner and he’s trying to lift something heavy up there with all his might. Pulling the chair over from the desk, I get up to see what he’s doing. Just over the crown moulding on top of the armoire lays a metal laptop case. I reach over to try to open it, but of course, it’s locked. The only identification on it is a luggage tag that says “B.V.S. 415-555-1224.” I jot the number on my hand next to the other, return the chair to the desk, and leave as quickly as I can.

When I’m back in the hall, I listen in on the intercom and hear Thomas telling Barend Schlacter that they have to leave for the ferry in about fifteen minutes. I know I’m safe because I can still hear them chatting away in the kitchen, but I can’t help but run to get out of the guest wing and back to my room where I bolt the door. I won’t feel safe here until he is off the island.

After giving Mr. Papers some origami sheets to busy himself, I do a reverse lookup on the phone numbers that are written on my hand. The number on the laptop case tag is not available, which means it must be his cell phone.

I try the other number and it comes up as unlisted, but available for $13.99 through some shady track-you-down company. My parents have set me up with a PayPal account that I can use for small purchases, so I immediately pay; it seems like a small price for some key information.

A few moments later, the name pops up: F.R.O., Inc., 600 Montgomery Street, San Francisco, California. MapQuest shows the address as the Transamerica Pyramid building. These people are in my old backyard!

When I try to Google the company name, nothing comes up. Nothing. It seems almost impossible for a company to have not one single mention. Weird. I need Justine’s help on this.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Spy job?

Oh my god Justine, you would not believe the CRAZY that is going down here!!!! I’m trying to piece a bunch of stuff together but I need a little help … I can’t stress enough how important it is that you not mention any of what I’m talking about to your parents, cuz if it gets back to my parents I am in so much trouble you don’t even know. Seriously, the whole Tenzo thing seems like playground games compared to what’s been happening lately.

This FREAK is here, posing as a hotel inspector and while my parents were out he came to my room and threatened me. We’re talking like adult-level scare tactics. I’m fine tho, and he’ll be gone for good in a few minutes, but I need to find out what his real story is. I searched his room and got the only phone number that he calls and that calls him, then I did a reverse lookup and it turns out it’s a company at the Transamerican Pyramid building! Can you believe it? It’s called F.R.O., Inc. and of course there is not one single mention of it on the web. Type in dung beetle and you get like a half a million pages but there’s not one mention of a company that works right there in the tallest building in San Francisco! Anyway, here’s my big favor—can you go over there and pretend you’re a bike messenger delivering a package? You’ll be totally safe in public. Look in the lobby at the company directory and find another company that’s on the same floor as FRO, then go up and take a peek. Just check if there’s anything to see, if they have like a tagline under their company name about what they do or anything. I know that this is a lot to ask, but I really need your help. THANKYOU THANKYOU THANKYOU!!!!!!!!!!!!

I hear noises outside so I walk to my window just in time to see Thomas loading Barend Schlacter up to take him to the ferry. I stand in the window and watch the car drive away, not moving until it’s out of sight.

The combination of the unusually warm sunlight streaming in and the relief of knowing that man is gone loosens me up. I look over at the loch, twinkling in the sun like a blue plate with diamonds on it, and feel a great urge to go swimming. I pull on my bathing suit and a hat, put a towel and my sketchbook in a bag, and grab Mr. Papers.

The loch is too big to swim across, but not so big that you’d think a monster could live in it. It’s actually very nice. There’s even a little sandy area where Mr. Papers and I sit and listen to waves lap the shore.

When I get warm enough from lying in the sun, I start wading in. Mr. Papers comes to the edge of the water and makes little screeching sounds. Guess he’s not much of a swimmer. When the water hits my thighs I dive in; it’s so cold that it takes my breath away. I do a few dolphin dives and then stand on my hands underwater and try some synchronized swim moves that I saw in the Olympics. I am always amazed at how much makeup those women can wear underwater and wonder if there’s a whole line of cosmetics just for synchronized swimmers.

I hear a voice say my name in the distance. I look toward where it’s coming from by the castle, and I see Alex.

Great! The last time he saw me I had mushrooms in my teeth and now I’m completely wet in my bikini. I shake the water from my hair, but see by my shadow that this has made it go full fro so I go back underwater to wet it. Alex is nearing the shore when I resurface.

Running for my towel, I wrap up in it before he gets too close.

“On holiday, I see,” he says as he walks over.

“Just going for a swim.”

“Surprising, that,” he says as he skips a stone on the water.

“What? You didn’t think I could swim?”

“Just didn’t think you’d enjoy the cold water so much, being such a big city girl and all.”

He never comes right out and says it, but I can tell he thinks I’m spoiled.

“Well, it’s not like the San Francisco Bay is heated and I swim there,” I say, even though I have never even stuck one toe in those shark-infested waters.

He doesn’t answer, just nods and goes on skipping stones. I see he is wearing fishing waders so I ask if he caught anything.

“Aye. Some nice wild brown trout. You ever fish?” he asks as he flips his hair back from his eye. I’m already over being irritated.

“Not really. My dad’s not too handy outdoors.” I wonder what to do next; there’s no way I’m taking this towel off while he’s still here. Then I remember the cornerstone that he told me about and ask him if he has a minute to show me where it is. He agrees, so I pack up.

As we walk up the path, I think about talking to him about his dad. From what Barend Schlacter said, it seems like F.R.O. may have been involved with his death. I decide it’s too touchy a subject; I’ll wait for the right time, maybe when I have more information.

We approach the tower and Alex points to the far corner. “I think it’s this one here.” He feels through the ivy with his fingers, and then takes a pocketknife and starts slicing through some of the vines. A carving about the size of a file folder begins to show through. It says:

Fergus Mac Fireland

Xu Bao Cheng

12 . 8 . 17 . 7 . 6

1760 A.D.

“Cool! What’s that string of numbers above the date?”

“Dunno. It’s always flummoxed me.”