Chapter 59 Mallory Plantation—Tavis #3
“From what I know, joie de vivre is a cultural characteristic,” Elliott said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “It’s not a magical cure, but it contributes to resilience when faced with hardships. And may we all have a bit of that?”
“Thank you, Elliott. You helped prove my point,” Tavis said.
“Can we get back to Alistair? I just had a thought. What if he’s planning a sting operation or something, and that’s why he’s killed?” Clay suggested. “If he is, we’ll have to help him. Maybe he’s even working for Eliot Ness.”
“I can see the wheels turning in yer head, Clay, and it sounds more like fiction than reality. I doubt Alistair was planning a sting operation. And how would ye know?” Elliott asked, with a skeptical arch to one eyebrow.
“Simple. Get the file first. Then we can decide what to do about Alistair. If he’s involved with the Illuminati, they can deal with him.”
“They did. I think we can assume they killed him,” Tavis said, his voice dropping to a somber, definitive tone that settled over them like a shroud.
“Let’s ask Ofello if Alistair was involved with the Illuminati in Scotland in the 1960s or in Chicago in the 1920s,” Clay said, leaning forward in anticipation. “And if she shuts down instead of answering, can we assume anything?”
“We can assume she doesn’t want to answer,” Rick said.
“Good one, Sherlock.”
Rick lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Ask and see what happens.”
Clay strode to Braham’s desk and typed the question for Ofello. “She’s not answering.”
“Ask her today’s date,” Tavis suggested.
Clay typed again, a rapid, almost desperate staccato against the keyboard. “Not answering.”
“Braham,” Tavis yelled. “Have you locked us out of Ofello?”
“No,” Braham’s distant voice drifted back.
“Come here and ask her a question. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
Braham put the wetsuit he was holding down on the stainless-steel table and entered his office. “What do ye want to ask her?”
“Today’s date.”
Braham typed in the question. The screen remained stubbornly blank. “What’d ye do to my computer?” His voice carried an edge now.
“Not a damn thing,” Clay said. “And actually, it’s mine. Archibald left it to me.”
Braham’s thumbs flew across his phone screen, sending a text. “David said he hadn’t messed with Ofello.”
“Maybe she reached her expiration date…” Tavis’s voice trailed off, the truth settling heavily between them. The silence was deafening.
“It’s been two months since we unplugged her from Archibald’s house and moved her here.
She’s probably being extra picky, being a diva.
” Braham dismissed their fears with a wave of his hand, returning to the work that seemed suddenly insignificant, leaving Clay and Tavis alone with the silent machine.
“I’ll ask Archibald.” A muscle twitched in Clay’s jaw as he placed the call, his hand tight around the phone, and put it on speaker.
The silence in the room felt heavy. When Archibald answered, Clay’s voice echoed the frustration gripping them all.
“This call is on speaker. Elliott, Braham, Tavis, and Rick are here with me. We just tried to ask Ofello a question, but she’s buttoned up tighter than a vault.
Did she ever stage a strike for you? Or do you think Violet programmed the computer to self-destruct? ”
“Ofello often refused to answer me,” Archibald said. “But do I think Violet programmed her to self-destruct on a certain date? Perhaps. With Violet, it’s impossible to predict.”
“If Ofello has never frozen up like this before, then our access has been denied.” Clay disconnected the call.
“Since the Elders knew Archibald stole the supercomputer, it’s entirely possible Violet struck a secret bargain to disable it upon Archibald’s death.
If we ever hope to access it again, we’ll have to find her. ”
“We?” Rick’s voice was a low growl, a challenge hanging in the air. “That sounds less like a ‘we’ and more like a job for her son.”
“Ya think?” Clay shot back, the sarcasm a raw edge to his voice. “I don’t have a lifeline to contact her. But if I ever catch sight of her again, I’ll take the hit and interview her, just as I did with Erik. But this time… it won’t be pretty.”
“Barclay,” Elliott said. “If ye get a chance, put yer justified hostility aside, and use yer skills to charm the answers out of her, just like ye did with Erik.”
“The Jetboots will be here in an hour,” Braham hollered from the rear of the clean room. “Get yer kits together so ye’ll be ready to leave.”
Tavis ducked out of Braham’s blueprint-strewn office and found him standing in front of a towering, gray steel cabinet that housed an arsenal of advanced scuba gear. A sense of hurried finality hung in the air. “This is all new. Is there anything you don’t have stashed away in this metal behemoth?”
“Only the Jetboots, and yes, this is new. Clay bought it after he destroyed the other one.”
“I didn’t buy it. I paid for it, and the replacement is twice the size of the other one.”
“Ye weren’t charged for the larger-size cabinet, but ye should have been. As for the Jetboots, I won’t waste my breath asking ye to bring them back. Ye’ll probably ditch them in Lake Michigan. But if ye can manage—”
“I’ll bring ’em home,” Tavis interjected, a silent promise hanging between the two men.
Braham zipped up a sturdy mesh dive bag and packed it in a duffel. “And bring the Chevrolet back, too. I’m quite partial to that car.”
“Braham, where are the brooches?” Rick asked.
“Look in the wooden box next to my computer,” Braham instructed. “Ye’ll find the diamond, amethyst, and moonstone.”
“Does the moonstone return you to the exact moment of departure?” Rick asked.
“According to Archibald, it does,” Braham confirmed.
Tavis carefully rechecked the wetsuit’s flexible neoprene, ensuring it was the thick, semi-dry type crucial for the chill of cold water. Satisfied, he sealed the zipper of the second bag with a definitive zip, just as Braham unzipped the third.
“This whole adventure is rushed,” Tavis said.
“What the hell did you expect?” Clay asked. “Elliott booted Remy and me into the vortex the moment we discovered Marcelle and Bastien had vanished. We had maybe two hours to prepare. Stop complaining.”
“I’m not complaining,” Tavis snapped. “This is too haphazard for my liking. We’re plunging headfirst into an extraction operation and spying on the Illuminati. I require—no, I demand—more preparation time than this.”
“Ye’ll have all the time in the world once you’re there,” Elliott countered, a slow, infuriating smile spreading.
Clay emerged from the office, arms laden with a formidable stack of news reports. “I’ve gathered every public account of the accident,” he announced, shuffling the papers into a neat pile. “It should be enough.”
“Where’s the rendezvous point in Chicago?” Rick asked.
“We met up at The Drake last time, but returning there would be a mistake. That eagle-eyed desk clerk is bound to remember me,” Clay said.
“You believe a desk clerk in a bustling hotel will remember your charming face a year later?” Rick scoffed, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.
Clay stretched his arms wide, threw his head back, and bellowed with unexpected passion, “I’m the King of the World!”
Rick let out a bark of genuine laughter. “Well, that was an impressive impersonation of Jack Dawson! Who else do you keep hidden up your sleeve?”
“Oh, he channels Elvis Presley, complete with the hip-gyrating, suggestive dance moves,” Elliott revealed with a delighted chuckle. “He makes Meredith blush and laugh every time.”
In a heartbeat, Clay launched into a five-second, pelvis-driven Presley impersonation that sent waves of laughter through the clean room.
Elliott wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head. “For the love of all that’s decent, do not unleash that around the younger generation. Ye’ll cause another cultural revolution.”
Braham, who had watched the display in stunned silence, finally shook his head. “How have I gone all this time without knowing ye possessed such raw, captivating talent?”
“You should go out for a beer with us sometime,” Clay said. “I’ve been the picture of discretion around here.”
“Not discreet enough,” Tavis said. “Rory taught Joseph a few of those moves. I summoned a straight face—a monumental effort, believe me—and told Joseph never to do that around Meredith or Charlotte.”
“That was wise,” Elliott said, a rich chuckle rolling up from his chest.
“I’m glad I’ve relieved some of the stress around here,” Clay said.
“Now, as I was saying before Rick insulted my improv, let’s stay at The Stevens?
It opened in May 1927 as the world’s largest hotel, a true architectural marvel.
It’s on Michigan Avenue, between 7th and 8th Streets.
If we get separated, let’s meet there. The first one to arrive can get us a suite—preferably one with a view—and give the desk clerk the names of the other members of the party. ”
“We need money,” Rick said, the edge of practicality cutting through the shared moment of planning.
“We all brought back coins and dollar bills,” Clay said, “but we’ll need gold to trade for cash.”
“There are three leather pouches on my desk, with nuggets and diamonds. Bring back what ye don’t use,” Braham instructed.
“Doesn’t Alistair work at a bank?” Tavis asked.
Clay picked up the wooden box and the heavy leather pouches, placing them with a solid thud on the stainless-steel table. “First National Bank of Chicago,” he confirmed.
“I’ll take the gold there and open an account,” Tavis said. “Didn’t you say Sean MacKlenna did business with him?”
“Yeah, but should we be throwing around his name before we know if Alistair has some connection to the Illuminati? We don’t want to cause a problem for Sean,” Clay said.
“You’re right.” Tavis placed the wooden box and pouches next to the bulky scuba duffels. “Pack light. We’ll shop for new wardrobes when we get there.”