Mystery Grail
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The first sign something was up with the Grail had been the sudden rush of phone calls to my cell phone. I’d answered, but nobody spoke – just a faint static-filled buzz that made me think someone was playing games on their end or maybe trying to track me down. But who? And why would anyone be tracking me down at all?
I glanced around me as I walked through the downtown area. The sun shone in a clear blue sky and people were out shopping and walking dogs. The only other thing that seemed odd about this sunny Monday morning were the dozens of reporters and camera crews filming from across the street.
They’d caught sight of me when I stepped outside for some fresh air after checking my email and making an early lunch. It wasn’t like there was anything different about my day except the fact that the Grail had suddenly become an international news item overnight. Then again, I suppose if one person is going to be a celebrity because of it, it might as well be me.
After all, I’m sure plenty of people are already curious about who’s behind the mysterious gold and silver cup.
From what I’ve read and heard on TV, everyone has his or her own theory about how it got here; a few believe it came off the Roman ship that brought Christianity to Britain, others that it belonged to King Arthur himself, while still more say it was forged by the Knights Templar in France.
Some even claim it’s nothing but a modern hoax created by a wealthy man or woman. Maybe it’s all true, maybe not. Personally, I don’t really care. All I know is that the Grail is mine now and I intend to do whatever I can to stop anyone else from getting their hands on it. Or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
Back to the present. As I continued to walk, I watched as a line of police cars drove past in a caravan heading toward the museum where the Grail was being kept. A couple of them stopped along the way to pick up officers headed back from patrol.
There must have been dozens of cops on duty today, but none of them approached me. I guess they knew better than to give me any trouble. Of course, it hadn’t always been this easy for me. I thought about those days when I’d lived under the radar and could go wherever I wanted without drawing attention to myself.
Those times had been so long ago now, but I couldn’t help remembering how much simpler things had been then.
Outside the museum, I followed the throng of journalists to the front entrance. Several guards stood to watch inside the lobby, but no one bothered to tell me to move aside. Instead, I walked right past them, all the way to the security desk in the foyer. “Can you please check me in?” I asked the clerk who immediately recognized me.
“Of course,” she replied. She scanned my ID card, checked me into the system, and handed me a badge that allowed me access to all parts of the building. I nodded thanks as I passed through the turnstiles and entered the museum proper. In the center of the main hall, a metal detector surrounded by two rows of flashing yellow lights greeted me.
At least this time, the guards didn’t bother to search my belongings or question me. No doubt, they were probably too busy dealing with the crowds of gawking tourists.
At last, I reached the gift shop and went straight to the counter. When I’d first arrived at the museum, I’d considered asking security to let me in since I was technically one of the staff members, but I hadn’t planned on being here quite yet. Since the press had descended upon the place, I figured I’d make a grand entrance for everyone to see.
With my hair pulled back, wearing black pants and a white shirt, and sporting a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, I looked every bit the part of a museum curator. After paying the cashier, I took a seat on a bench near the entrance.
Not far away, a handful of officials and museum employees milled about. The mood among the workers had changed since yesterday. Gone was the camaraderie of the weekend before. Now they appeared nervous and on edge. One of the museum staff led a reporter to the front desk, where he asked for a statement.
I turned my head slightly to watch as the woman leaned against the counter, answering questions. At the same time, another woman held a microphone out to a guy in a suit, who proceeded to explain the museum’s position. When all was said and done, the two separated. Both eventually left the building.
The room grew quiet. The only sounds were the occasional clatter of a fork on a plate or the shuffling of feet. I shifted my gaze to the window, but the glass remained clouded by the glare from the noon sun. I waited for several minutes until the museum was empty.
Then, I rushed over to the door opposite the gift shop. Just as I opened it, I saw the guard heading down the hallway. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide as if startled by something. But I ignored him, stepping out into the corridor.
I made my way to the second floor, passing through the narrow stairwell. I’d barely stepped onto the landing when I saw an old man come around the corner at the end of the hall. He was carrying a large case in either hand.
At first, I didn’t recognize him, but then I realized it was Harold Zang himself. Seeing him reminded me of the night we’d spent together – the first time I’d ever slept with someone else.
As I walked toward him, Harold turned and saw me approaching. He took off running. Before I could reach the bottom step, he vanished between the doors at the other end of the hallway. I hurried after him, reaching the stairs just in time to see him disappear into the parking lot.
***
Harold darted across the main parking lot, dodging between vehicles and moving quickly. I followed as best as I could, but there were too many obstacles and too much traffic. At one point, I lost sight of him and panicked, thinking I might lose him forever. But then I noticed his profile in the distance, rushing in my direction. Seconds later, I caught up to him in the middle of the street.
“Stop!” I yelled. It seemed like such a simple request, but even though the man was clearly in danger, he refused to stop. Once again, I ran after him. At last, he came to a halt beside a parked car. Without warning, he pushed open the driver’s side door, jumped in, and started the engine. Even as the vehicle began to pull away, I rushed up to the passenger side.
“Wait!”
He reached to put the car in drive and reached over to me to do so. His face was inches from mine. I watched his lips form the word, “Help.”
That was all the encouragement I needed. Suddenly, I felt a surge of energy. My mind cleared instantly. All thoughts of what might happen to me disappeared. Nothing else mattered. I focused on the task at hand – getting Harold free.
“Get out,” I ordered.
With my heart pounding, I grabbed hold of the front of his suit jacket and yanked him out of the seat. For an instant, I thought he might fight me, but then his eyes widened and he screamed in pain. He clawed at his chest as if trying to rip away something that had been sewn in.
I shoved him away. He stumbled backward, tripping over the bumper of a nearby car. As he fell to the ground, he rolled into the grass and cried out. Blood dripped from his mouth and chin.
“Move,” I growled.
At first, he didn’t budge. Then, suddenly, he found his footing. I stepped back, afraid to get any closer because I knew I’d have no choice but to help him.
When the ambulance arrived, I stood behind a tree and watched the paramedics rush Harold inside. They tried desperately to stop the bleeding, but it continued to flow. When they carried him out, his clothes were soaked crimson. Two firemen loaded the stretcher into the back of the truck. A third paramedic approached me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Just leave me alone.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he helped me find my way to the sidewalk. Then, when the ambulance drove away, he escorted me to the entrance.
“You’re lucky he wasn’t driving faster,” he said. “Or he’d be dead now.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, walking past him.
At the front desk, I signed the visitor log, then handed over my wallet. He looked at the ID.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“They sent me.”
He studied me for a moment. “Who did? The cops?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Why would they want to talk to a homeless guy?”
“Because it’s important.”
The man nodded approvingly.
“Here,” he said, handing me my license back. “But only if you promise not to tell anyone about this. Not even your friends.”
I hesitated. I should probably keep quiet, but there was no telling how long it might take to convince the police. And once I told them everything I knew, they couldn’t ignore my story. Once I explained why Harold was being harassed by the FBI, they would surely launch their own investigation.
“It’s a deal.”
“Good. Now go home. Don’t worry, we’ll handle things from here.”
After leaving the hospital, I stopped at the nearest coffee shop and bought a cup of joe. After filling my belly with caffeine, I walked down the block to the park where I sat on a bench and waited. It was still early morning. Only a few people were around. One of those was Vivian. She glanced at me once, then focused her attention on the leaves above us.
A short time later, she turned to me. “What took you so long?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
She pursed her lips. “Something bad happened. Are you sure you don’t want to share?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m sorry. We can talk about it some other time.”
We spent the next half hour sitting together on the bench. During that time, I learned a little about Vivian and her life at the shelter. An odd thing struck me: She’d grown up in Oklahoma, but she had a strong Kansas accent. I wondered if she’d lived there most of her childhood or if she’d moved to the area after moving out of the state.
“So, what do you think they wanted to talk to me about?” I asked.
She gave a shrug. “They haven’t come back yet. So, I guess they weren’t satisfied.”
“Maybe they’re checking you out,” I suggested.
“You mean because of the FBI?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry. The Feds will never believe anything I say.”
Our conversation soon moved from the shelter to the FBI. I told her I hadn’t been able to reach J.J. or Jodie. But I promised I’d call them once I got home. Then I talked about the sting operation, including everything I’d seen and heard. I mentioned the man who pretended to be the FBI agent, the one who told me to leave town. In the end, I described the last words the FBI agent had said to me:
“Make sure you see the big picture. That’s the only thing you need to know.”
When I finished, Vivian leaned forward.
“Okay,” she said. “Now I understand. You’re sure they won’t find out about this?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If I’m lucky, maybe.”
Vivian reached across the table and gripped my hand. Then she pulled me close and wrapped her arms around me. She rested her head on my shoulder and whispered into my ear.
“Thank you,” she said.
Then she kissed me.
The End