Hunt for the Holy Grail Read online

  Hunt for the Holy Grail

  Preston William Child

  Copyright © 2011, 2020 by Preston William Child

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication might be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Books by Preston William Child

  All Books by Preston William Child in Order

  http://prestonwilliamchild.com/books

  Special Offer

  Want to read some of my books for FREE?

  Available for a limited time only. To download them, go to my

  Free Starter Library

  Contents

  Books by Preston William Child

  Special Offer

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PART 3

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART 4

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Books of this series in order

  Special Offer

  About the Author

  PART 1

  1

  Counting had never helped. At least, it has never brought sleep to him as often advertised.

  He wondered if it ever worked, counting numbers to fall asleep, or any such thing people say you could do to fall asleep. What seemed truer than any of those counting suggestions was that if you can’t fall asleep, then you can’t.

  It is what it is.

  He folded his thick hands on the rise of his chest. Counting never worked, concluded Tom Garcia, sheriff of the small community of Baker County. He had been through a rough day at the office that day, true. A rough day which included proofreading the typed reports by 60-year-old Elma, his secretary. And then making a run down to the magistrate court a total of six times to take those he arrested—four misdemeanor offenders and one miscreant who now languishes in cell 2 down at the station, the other four being held in the other cells in the basement.

  Garcia commenced counting again.

  He never got past five. Betty always chose that central and epochal moment in his counting to mouth something, all the way from dreamland. Betty was Garcia’s wife of 28 years.

  Betty always fell asleep after reading two paragraphs from her paperback books. Gone with the Wind, a book by some little known writer, was spread out on her chest. Her breasts rose and fell gently with every breath. Her mouth was open about half of an inch. She had just mumbled something about keeping the molasses off the countertop.

  Garcia had no idea where that could have come from.

  He started counting again.

  This time it wasn’t his wife’s mumble that stopped him. It was the bedside phone.

  Rrrrrrrrriiiiiinnng!!

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!!”

  He reached over and grabbed the telephone off the cradle. Silence followed.

  “Hello.”

  “Sheriff? Are you up?”

  “Yeah, what’s the problem? It’s 1 am, am I supposed to be up?”

  Betty turned in the bed, mumbled something, and went on slumbering.

  Sheriff Tom Garcia listened for a moment.

  “Alright, alright, Sue. I’ll come to check it out.”

  He returned the phone then cursed. Tom rubbed his eyes. He looked at his wife once, before rolling his bulk off the bed.

  “Who was that, Tom?”

  Betty was up on her elbows.

  “That was Sue,” Tom said, walking into the bathroom.

  “Who?”

  “Sue.” He turned on the tap. “Sue at the Baker Home.”

  “Oh, has there been a fire again?”

  “Go back to sleep, Betty. It’s probably nothing to worry about.”

  Tom splashed cool water on his face.

  Five minutes later, he was driving up the hill towards the Baker Home for the Elderly.

  —

  The idea for the Baker Home for the Elderly was conceived in ’53 by the selectmen. The site used to be one huge tract of woodlands. The first time the city came, they took a chunk of it to let Highway 11 through. What’s left of the construction crew's presence has since turned into a trailer park. Then the selectmen came and thought, what the hell, let’s take some more. The digging of the foundations began not long after.

  It was completed in the fall of ’57, after constant stops and starts on account of funds, generally, and will specifically. The first spade that struck the soft silt earth of the site on the dry and windy June of '54, almost thirteen months after the thought occurred to those old selectmen, was that which was held by the geriatric hands of Edward Baker. His name was apparently chosen for the building for other reasons Tom isn’t now privy of, decades after.

  Tom Garcia drove his Ford into the half-lit parking lot. He swept searching eyes across the area and back the way he had come. There was no one in sight.

  He palmed his holster. Be ready old friend, he thought.

  Sue, the night nurse on duty, had called earlier to report the presence of an intruder. The four-story building looked as magnificent as a war-beaten and senile senior. The home has had one or two break-ins in the past three years. Never something serious. Petty thieves mostly.

  Tom sauntered his big body through the double glass doors and found Sue Jackson standing by her desk. She had been something of a secretary there for most of ten years. She took ill once or twice, went on vacation only one time. Sue was black. Tonight she looked grey with sheer fright.

  Tom guided her back to her desk where there was a mess of papers, pens, and an assortment of lady things like hairpins, and a particularly huge comb.

  “I need the tape for this evening.”

  Visibly shaken, Sue’s hands trembled as she punched the tape to life. It made a whirring sound as it rewound. She pressed a button again and it stopped. The footage was clear enough. It showed a long lighted hallway, the floor sparkled whit
e.

  As Tom watched, a figure moved into the hall. From the angle, he looked about six feet. He wore what seemed like a soldier’s ensemble. It could also have been a cleaner’s uniform. He walked steadily, not looking back until he went out of sight.

  “Okay.” Tom exhaled. “And you said he never came back that way or any other way?”

  “No.”

  “And he couldn’t be one of your guys, maybe a janitor, or some visitor who stayed after visiting time?”

  The nurse looked at the empty hallway on the screen. She pursed her lips. Shaking her head she said, “No. I’d know him. I know everyone on the staff, Tom.”

  Sheriff Garcia agreed that this was true. Sue was old, but not enough to not know a regular from a stranger. And this was a stranger.

  Lost in thought, she added, “I think he’s still up there somewhere.”

  “Right, I have to see that hallway.” Tom peered through the glass of the main entrance. “Come show me.”

  Sue was enormous in her white gown dotted with red. She quickly waddled ahead of Tom Garcia, talking rapidly as she went.

  “I was having me a cup of tea and watching me my TV show, you know the Ferry Boat show with Jerry Levine from the School Band? Yes, there I was and—”

  “Sue, will you just tell me what you saw, exactly?”

  They went up a step. Sue panted, supporting her knees with her hands. “I never go up that often, Tom.”

  “I know.”

  “So I saw the man walking on the third floor. He was tall. I didn’t see his face but he walked straight enough to be strong and young if you know what I mean.”

  On the landing, Sue stopped. Her voice dropped to a whisper. Her face clouded, bulging eyes glanced at Sheriff Tom Garcia.

  “He went that way.” Sue waved at a lit hallway that stretched for about thirty feet. The floor was white linoleum. Tom thought that the floor was inappropriate since this wasn’t a hospital. From where he stood behind Sue, he could see most of the doors locked. Beyond the last door, the floor seemed to plunge down a flight of stairs. It was dark there, he couldn’t see much.

  “There are stairs at the end of this hallway, right?”

  “Yes, Sheriff. Up to the administrative offices and the roof.”

  Tom pulled the nurse gently. “Now I want you to go back down to your station. Get on the surveillance TV and watch. If you see anything, squawk into the PA, you got it?”

  The old nurse nodded vigorously, gave Tom a thumbs-up, and wiggled off.

  —

  Sheriff Tom Garcia made sure Nurse Sue was out of sight before he plucked his talkie from a strap on his belt. He looked around once more. It was so quiet that if he dropped a pin it would make a crash. Still, Tom Garcia wondered if Sue was mistaken. The casual air of the man on the tape was difficult to ignore.

  He would check around before calling for backup.

  He put his right hand on his holster and strolled along the hall. He checked three doors as he went by. He turned the knobs, two didn’t open. The third opened into a semi-lit room of old and snoring people. Someone was singing in their sleep about a certain Lorraine.

  Tom closed the door gently and continued ahead.

  He almost went past a fourth door. He had, in fact, taken two steps past it when he heard the muffling sound.

  He pulled his gun instantly and pointed it back the way he came.

  There was no one behind him. On his left, doors stood numb in the walls and on the right, the white balcony and the night sky.

  He listened, willing his auditory senses in the direction of the third door, the room where he had just seen residents sleeping.

  The choking sound came again, this time more clearly.

  The gun now pointed at the fourth room he had missed a while ago, he got on his talkie.

  In a firm but hushed tone, he said, “This is Sheriff Tom Garcia. I need backup at the Baker Home, two units. There’s a possible 245 going on!”

  The choking had gotten louder as he was talking. Tom cursed. “Shit.”

  He tucked his talkie away and threw his right leg at the door. It swung in easily. Cool air hit his face as he lunged into the dark room.

  “Police, freeze!” he snapped.

  His heart was pounding. Blood pumped in his temples. The room seemed bare, at least, on the floor. He stumbled around, squinting his eyes in the dark, his gun aimed at the dull and eerie walls. He saw that there was a patio, and curtains billowed like restless waves.

  He aimed his weapon at the patio. There was no one there, of course. But whoever was in there could be behind the walls of the patio, waiting to strike.

  “Police, come out with your hands in the air where I can see 'em.”

  He pulled his safety on, and then off. It made a soft click, for the benefit of the intruder.

  Tom busted onto the patio, rapidly turning with his weapon in both directions, right and left. There was no one there. There was only a twenty-foot drop onto the edge of the parking lot, grasses shiny with moisture, the woods beyond that and the trailer park beside Highway 11.

  He went back in. He found a switch.

  Tom Garcia’s shoulders sagged at the sight when the light in the ceiling came on.

  He brought his talkie to his lips. He felt enormous exhaustion suddenly hit him.

  “This is Sheriff Tom Garcia,” he mumbled at the prone body on a chair. “Make that a 10-52, we have a dead body here.”

  Tom went back to the patio and gazed into the woods on the left side of the hill. It was too dark out there for him alone. He glanced back at the man on the chair. A pool of blood gathered around his unclad feet. His head was bent at an odd angle. The pale face looked mashed up and one of the hands also appeared broken.

  Someone had made an opening in his throat, from ear to ear.

  2

  It was 8:45 am. And she’s been drunk now for two hours. She’s also been playing chess with her cat, Smokey.

  She moved a pawn. “Rook to E8, Smokey.”

  The cat followed her moves with keen brown eyes. He looked like a furry sphinx.

  Olivia Newton scratched her face, behind her ears. She hoped she wasn’t catching an infection there. How could he not get a bug? she asked the querulous voice in her head, the one that she called her Moral Bitch.

  “Hello, Moral Bitch. I’ve been drinking since 3:00 am. What’d you think about that?”

  That voice was silent this morning. It was odd.

  Smokey meowed.

  Olivia wiped the hair out of her face. The act hurt in places around her breasts and back. She groaned. She had taken a fall the day before. She had been talking with the Moral Bitch when she slipped and tumbled down. She woke with the pain and a shattered bottle of good whiskey.

  She smelled of it now, the whiskey that is. She smelled of problems as well.

  She heard a commotion in the street below. Someone was howling and the voice was familiar.

  Whiskey in one hand, her hip in the other, and an accompanying groan of pain, she went to the window. She pulled the curtain to the side. The early morning sun stung her eyes.

  Some big guy in a black jacket and a fedora was yelling at another guy who was in his car. The details of the quarrel were not so obvious from up here. Olivia didn’t care much. But the white fedora.

  There’s only one person Olivia Newton knew who had that fedora. The big guy looked up just in time to see her peeping from the window.

  “Hey, Olivia.” He waved.

  “Shit.”

  Olivia pulled the curtain back. She loitered across the house into the kitchen, kicking things like the vacuum cleaner she hasn’t used in weeks as she went. The kitchen smelled. She spat into the soiled sink.

  A work crew of red and fat cockroaches spilled out of the dishes in shock.

  She ignored the creatures.

  She fetched a pack of cornflakes from the cupboard. More cockroaches had taken tenancy. Back in the living room she poured whiskey on the flakes.


  There was a knock at the door.

  “I’m not home,” she whined at the door. “Go 'way.”

  The knob worked, clockwise and anti-clockwise. She watched it in amused sadness as she poured the rest of the whiskey all over the cornflakes. Olivia was left with only one man in the entire universe who would come all the way up there to see her. That man would twist that doorknob until it fell out of the door.

  She didn’t really want that. Yet, she was mad at him. Olivia was mad at the world. She closed her eyes, tightly, an act that usually called up hot tears in the recent past. Lately, her tear ducts had ran out of water. Nowadays, that simple act only produced hotness and tingling, and a consummate other realization: that she was mad at herself too.

  And that was the worst of all the various ways she felt.

  Olivia scooped more cereal into her mouth; it tasted metallic.

  Her apartment had the appearance of a dumpsite. It reeked of bad food, body odor, and frustrated anger.

  She went to get the door.

  Tom Garcia was there with the expression of a disappointed dad.