In front of them Uncle Lu, in the king’s voluminous cloak, was squawking into his cell phone. Alois, the fisherman, didn’t seem to be especially amused by his old friend’s nocturnal call, but Zöller had some persuasive arguments. Finally the old man put his cell phone away and grinned at his two passengers.
“I’ve promised Alois the king’s cloak,” he said, turning to them in the back of the truck. “And I’ll probably have to back his chloroform theory at the next meeting. Ah well, it isn’t really such a crazy theory.”
“No crazier than a diary, a dead Cowled Man, and a contract killer in a castle museum,” Sara replied.
A few minutes later they finally reached the little harbor near the chapel. Alois, the fisherman, was waiting for them, with his outboard engine chugging. The stormy wind whistled over the Chiemsee, and the boat was bobbing up and down on the waves like a wet paper ship, but that didn’t seem to bother Alois. The promise of the cloak had improved his temper considerably.
“Lord almighty!” the old fisherman said. “I took you for the king himself. What the devil were you doing over there, Lu?”
“I’ll tell you back at your hut over a beer,” Zöller said. “Now, let’s go, damn it. Otherwise we’ll both be lying dead in the water like Ludwig and Gudden.”
LANCELOT STOOD ON the bank, watching the bobbing boat as it grew smaller and smaller across the heavy swell of the lake. The wound on his left leg hurt like hell, but the giant was sure it was only a graze. A fresh dressing, some disinfectant, and the hunt could go on. That was the good news.
The bad news was that they had escaped him again.
Cursing, Lancelot kicked a rotting wooden post into the water. The king would go berserk. As so often, there would be threats to flay Lancelot alive, or to have him deported to Papua New Guinea.
Lancelot breathed in the fresh air of the lake deeply.
At least he had one card to play. He knew the second keyword—and he knew where the trio was going next.
Neuschwanstein.
All was not yet lost. Lancelot would get back on the trail. But this time he would take Tristan and Gawain with him, maybe Galahad and Mordred as well. He’d take a whole damn army if need be.
Next time they wouldn’t get away.
Once again he stared at the boat slowly moving away over the Chiemsee, which lay before him, an infinitely black, surging surface, its waves crowned by white foam. Then he limped back into the woods.
When his cell phone rang a little later, it took Lancelot some time to fish it out of his blood-soaked pants pocket. It was the king. In a hasty whisper, Lancelot explained what had happened in the castle. Then he said no more for quite a long time as he listened in silence.
The Royal Majesty was not angry. The Royal Majesty had a plan.
25
THE BED IN THE OLD boathouse creaked and squealed if Steven moved so much as a centimeter. It was so narrow that he was in constant danger of either falling out or forcing Sara over the side of the bed. It also stank of old fish.
He stared at the rotting ceiling and tried to find some peace and calm, in spite of the rain pattering down and the events of the last few hours. Alois, the fisherman, had given them the key to his old boathouse down in Prien harbor. After they had hidden the Mini in a nearby garage and told Uncle Lu about their experiences in the museum, the old man had disappeared with Alois into a bar somewhere to give him a slightly doctored account of the last few hours. Meanwhile, Sara and Steven had crept into the crooked boathouse, hoping that the killer wouldn’t find them there. But whenever the shutter over the window rattled, Steven imagined he saw the one-eyed giant suddenly appearing in the hut.
Far worse, however, were the memories that overwhelmed him like flashes of lightning.
Steven kept seeing his parents’ burning villa before him, heard the crackling of the flames and his mother’s shrill scream from the library. When he closed his eyes, there was a furious girl with long blond braids, trying to scratch his eyes out. But whenever the picture was about to become clearer, it dissipated. There was nothing beyond it but endless black.
Damn you, dreams. Why have you come back?
“Can’t you get to sleep either?” Steven asked, after he had been tossing and turning for what felt like an eternity.
The art detective sat bolt upright in bed. “Thanks for asking,” she snapped. “Even ignoring the lice in this place, a deranged giant in a gas mask tried to murder me tonight. And when I close my eyes, I see the leader of the Cowled Men wallowing in his own blood. So, no, I can’t get to sleep either.”
Steven switched on the rusty lamp beside the bed and turned to Sara. Her hair was tousled and still damp after their flight from the island. It had small leaves in it. He looked at her in silence for quite a long time.