Mr Hook's Big Black Box

Dwayne Carlisle: The Terror

When we pulled into the car park, I couldn't believe we'd made it in one piece. My knuckles were white as I clung to the steering wheel. I'd told Monty that I had some driving lessons, but in reality that meant two sessions about an hour each, and only once I'd actually been behind the wheel. At every minute, I'd been dreading taking the wrong turn, or missing some signal that might put us in danger, or of being pulled over by the police because we were weaving so much.

I gave Monty my phone, and she called the police. Made it an anonymous tip, to say she'd seen what looked like an armed robbery at her home. I figured that telling them about the Box at this point would only cause confusion and delay any response. I did hope, though, that if Ferrari had already told her friend to keep an eye on us in case of Spenser's appearance, they might make the call higher priority than an anonymous report at any other address.

I wasn't sure what to do next, I considered parking up somewhere and waiting to see if any sirens went past. But Monty was keeping track of things better than I was, she pointed out that when the police had driven off the invaders (whoever they were), they were likely to phone her campus room and ask her to come round, because she was the second contact listed on the paperwork for the alarm system. And that when we had access to the house again, we would also need the key.

I didn't argue. I stared at a spot on the road thirty feet ahead, my foot twitching on the brake every time another vehicle came close,and just nodded to all her suggestions.

"Kris says you can get a thing to listen in on other people's phone calls," she said after hanging up, "We should go see him."

"Sure," I agreed, "We need to get the key, anyway. On campus?"

It was another five or six white-knuckle minutes before we reached the university buildings and pulled into the car park. I didn't bother parking properly, I knew I would never have managed it and there were plenty of spaces. So I drove to an area where there were a few consecutive white lines visible and no vehicles I could easily hit, and moved slowly forward until the front bumper just nudged the fence.

I hoped that I wouldn't have to drive again, at least until I'd had some proper lessons.

* * *

We met Kris in the bar. His phone was on the table, a thin cable trailing down to one of the folding chargers I'd got everyone for Christmas last year. Good to see he was finding it useful.

"Hi," I got straight down to business, "We've got a bit of a problem."

"Someone else ambushed you looking for the Box?" he guessed.

"Yes," Monty answered before I had a chance, "They broke into the house, with guns and everything. Not sure who, it might be the Russians or it might be the Americans again."

"I don't think it would be Rasputin's men," he said, "They caught me, demanded to know who we're working for and where the Box is. Pretty sure they had no idea where to look. I told them we're not working for anyone and we just want to stay alive, and he told me why they're so eager to find it. Don't think it was the whole truth, though. It sounds crazy, but I'm inclined to believe there are elements of truth in there."

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," I wasn't paying enough attention to what I was saying, because I'd been thinking about how to say it so that we didn't sound crazy, and I just had to say my piece. "The police are probably at the house by now. Even if they're the CIA, they won't get away with breaking into a private home and waving guns around if they haven't found anything. That would get into big politics. But there's things more important than who gets the Box now. We need to get it open as soon as possible."

"What? Why?" Kris seemed startled, "What's it promised you?"

"I'm not after some reward," I growled, "I'm just trying to do the right thing." Though a good part of my anger was probably because I knew I'd been telling myself that all along. When I was after Cassie's movie I'd just been telling myself I had an innocent motive. Now it was a child in the Box my altruism was for real, and that just seemed to underline all the time I'd spent lying to myself.

"I'd better tell you what the Russians think," he said, "There's some kind of demon–"

I might have listened if he'd told me more, but the window shattered and any hope of conversation was interrupted by screams.