Three Yellow Shirts fired across the stage, toting brooms, dustpans, a vacuum cleaner.
Below, the Joker and a rail-thin woman in a navy pants suit were roping off the stage area. The looky-loos began to dissipate, drawn by more exciting action springing up elsewhere on the convention floor.
As Tempe and I descended, I spotted the boys waiting impatiently behind the cordon.
Skipper closed in like a falcon. “Find anything?”
Tempe handed Officer Flanagan the ransom note. His mustache actually bristled as he read the message.
Skipper, reading over his shoulder, paled, then yanked out his iPhone.
“Is there another way onto that stage?” Tempe asked.
Skipper answered in a strangled voice, offhandedly tugging at his turtleneck. “There’s a trapdoor at stage center, but it’s kept locked, and is barely large enough for someone to crawl through anyway. No one could steal the T-800 that way. Jenkins has the only key.” He gestured toward the Joker.
Interesting.
Tempe must’ve had the same thought. “Mr. Jenkins?” she called.
The Joker turned and raised a shaky hand. Tempe waved for him to join us. He complied, though his every step oozed reluctance.
“Do you have the key to the trapdoor?” Tempe asked.
Jenkins nodded, not meeting her eye. “Locked it last night, after we sealed the display case. Did it alone, because my partner bailed early. It’s still secure. Just checked.”
Only key, and alone. Veeeery interesting. But where was the other guy?
Tempe opened her mouth to say more, but Flanagan interrupted. “Can you give me your report, Dr. Brennan?”
Seizing on the diversion, Jenkins slunk away to the front of the stage.
Tempe watched his retreat thoughtfully. Then she began to relay our findings, which were essentially nothing. Whoever snatched the Terminator had covered their tracks.
The pants-suited lady joined Tempe’s circle, along with a white-bearded senior in a Hawaiian shirt. I slipped away to my friends behind the rope. Hi and Shelton were fidgeting impatiently, like dogs waiting to be unleashed.
Hi waved the VIP tickets at me. “Fifteen minutes until the Bones panel starts.”
“They don’t let you in late,” Shelton warned.
Ben yawned, covering his mouth. “Anything interesting?”
“There’s a ransom note.” That got their attention. “If the owner doesn’t fork over fifty K by noon, the robot gets it. Zero clues. No sign how or where it was taken.”
Ben tucked his hair behind his ears. “How’d they break the glass?”
“Couldn’t tell.” I glanced at my aunt, now holding court to a rather large audience. “Tempe said it’d take a tremendous amount of force. We even looked for evidence of gunshots, but struck out.”
Ben crossed his arms. “Something’s bothering you.” A statement, not a question.
I grunted, half lost in thought. “Whatever shattered that glass must’ve been loud. Yet no one seemed to hear it.”
Hi pursed his lips, curious despite himself. “The note was handwritten?”
“Short and scribbled.” I recited the exact wording of the message. “I think the author intentionally disguised his or her penmanship. The paper was secured by ragged pieces of blue-green duct tape.”
“That won’t help,” Shelton mused. “Half these booths are held together by that stuff.”
“True.” Hi spoke slowly. “But the T-800 had to leave this room somehow. Which means a door. And if there were people around, even just a few—”
“The exit point would have to be nearby.” I rose to my tiptoes. “How many do you see?”
Shelton pointed across the room. “Two on the far wall, but you’d have to pass the Marvel Comics area. Too risky. Plus those doors lead to the lobby. Aren’t people usually lined up outside by six o’clock?”
Hi nodded. “Way earlier than that.”
I jabbed a finger at the opposite wall. “They must’ve gone that way, into the bowels of the convention center. Otherwise they’d have wheeled the thing by hundreds of witnesses.”
“Two doors,” Ben noted. “Both off-limits to visitors.”
I clapped my hands, energized. “That’s where we start.”
Hi looked stricken. “But . . . but . . . Bones . . .”
“We’ve got passes, Tory.” Shelton, almost pleading. “Passes.”
Ben glanced at Tempe’s knot of listeners. “Why not just tell those cops?”
I tilted my head, brow furrowed. “I don’t even know how to answer that question.”
“Here we go.” Shelton buried his face in his hands. “Even on vacation we’re gonna break the law. I might as well burn this costume. This isn’t how a Jedi Master acts.”
“How do we get through the gatekeeper?” Ben pointed to a yellow-clad female staffer monitoring the doors. “I don’t think Hi’s magic tickets will get it done.”
“Wasted tickets,” Hi muttered.
I chewed my lower lip. “We improvise. But first I have to throw Tempe off our scent.”
That part was blessedly easy.
Tempe was surrounded by the two police officers, a gaggle of Yellow Shirts, and the iron-faced woman in the navy pants suit. Skipper was nearby, his RoboCop helmet tucked under an armpit as he whispered to the grandpa in the Hawaiian shirt. Both were scowling at Jenkins, who was removing his Joker makeup over by the steps.
Spotting me, Tempe extricated herself from the dour-faced company. “Sorry, but I’m stuck here awhile. That note has everyone riled up.” She leaned close, pointed to the woman. “That lady runs the exhibition hall. She’s furious about the incident, but doesn’t have a clue what to do. The guy in the tacky bongo-drum shirt is the T-800’s owner. I think he’s been phoning his bank.”
That surprised me. “He’s going to pay?”
Tempe drummed her fingers on her leg. “I’d call it a coin flip. Officer Flanagan wants to trace the money, but I doubt they get set up in time—the deadline is in less than ninety minutes. I think he’d rather pay than lose his property. The short timetable has everyone jumpy.”
My hands found my head. “This is so crazy.”
Tempe nodded. “But you guys shouldn’t waste your whole day with this. Go have fun. I’ll text you when I can shake loose of this fiasco.”
Perfect. “Okay. We’ll watch that panel, then wander a bit, maybe check out . . .”
I trailed off. Had spotted the solution to my next problem.
Two event-staff badges were sitting on the stage steps. Unattended.
Tempe missed my distraction. “Let’s grab lunch downtown after I’m done. I hear the Zombie Walk is an absolute riot. We could eat outside and watch.”
“Yes.” Eyeing the badges. “Good idea.”
“Dr. Brennan?” Pants Suit was pointedly looking at her watch.
Tempe squeezed my hand. “See you later.”
“Bye.”
Go time.
Feigning nonchalance, I drifted toward the stage. Breezy. Natural. Nothing to see.
I leaned against the steps. Casually placed both hands behind my back.
The boys watched in total consternation. Ben squinted at me, then raised both palms.
Hold on a minute, doofuses.
Groping blindly, I snagged the badges and shoved them into my shorts. Fake yawn. Shirt tug. Then I strolled away, face blank, desperately hoping I hadn’t been spotted, and that the badges wouldn’t fall out along the way.
Thankfully, neither happened. I walked stiffly over to the boys.
“Let’s go,” I whispered needlessly, then attempted to melt into the crowd.
“Tory?” Hi’s voice called from behind. “Did you get hit in the head?”
Ignoring him, I hurried ahead, crossing three aisles before ducking into a relatively quiet corner. When the boys caught up, I was practically dancing with impatience.
“Why the stealth sprint?” Shelton whined, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Hi adjusted the waistband of his garish tights. “Not gonna lie, Brennan. You get weird sometimes.”
“Zip it.” I flashed the staff badges. “Lookie.”
“Oooh.” Hiram’s eyes widened. “Very nice, but only two?”
“Best I could manage.” I gave Hi and Shelton an appraising look. “I doubt your costumes would fly anyway. I’m planning to impersonate event staff.”
“I look fabulous and you know it.” Hi cocked his chin toward Ben. “You think taking him is a good idea? He’s not exactly smooth with the cover stories, if you know what I mean. Meanwhile, that’s kinda my wheelhouse.”
Ben glared at Hiram, but I spoke first. “He’s right, actually. Like it or not, this is Hi’s specialty. And you do get that guilty look.”
Ben snorted. “You think they’re letting this—” he waved a hand at Hi’s outfit, “—disaster back there? No chance.”
Ben wheeled on Shelton. “What about you?”
“About me not sneaking around the bowels of this building?” Shelton lifted both palms. “I’m fine with that, believe me.” Then he dodged Ben’s eye. “Hi should be the one.”
Ben looked from face to face, incredulous. “How is that going to work? Hi didn’t pack a change of clothes, did he?”
Hi smiled. “No. I didn’t.”
Shelton’s gaze remained glued to the floor.
I shuffled sideways. “You see, the thing is . . .”
Ben’s eyes widened. He took a step back. “Oh no. Not in this lifetime.”
“Ben, be reasonable,” I said. “Hi can’t wear what—”
“I’m not putting on those tights.” Ben looked ready to bolt. “They’re ridiculous. And he’s been wearing them all damn morning. That’s disgusting!”
“I resent that,” Hi said primly. “I took a long shower at the hotel, plus I Gold-Bonded up to reduce chafing. The AC’s been pretty strong in here, so everything’s nice and dry—”
“I’ll wear the Jedi stuff!” Ben’s voice edged toward panic. “Hi can have my clothes, I take Shelton’s, and he wears the tights.”
Shelton scoffed. “My gear won’t fit you, man. You’re, like, twice my size. But you and Hiram aren’t too far off, though he won’t be needing your belt.”
“Then let’s just forget it,” Ben pleaded. “Who cares about this stupid robot anyway?”
“Ben,” I said sternly. “We have to help Tempe investigate. Stop being so sensitive.”
I crossed my arms. “Now, are you a team player or not?”
? ? ?
Hi emerged from the men’s room, cuffing Ben’s jeans and straightening the black tee. “The fit’s not too bad,” he reported. “Baggy, but kinda gangster.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Oh, Ben’s not coming out.” Hi chuckled. “Not until you’re gone.”
Then Hi whipped out his iPhone. “Don’t worry, I snapped a shot when he wasn’t looking and ran. Related note: Ben legitimately might kill me later. I’ll need your help with that.”
I giggled at the pic. Ben was squeezed into Hi’s absurd red-and-yellow leotard, a horrified expression on his face. He looked a thousand shades of miserable.
He also looked . . . good. Very good, to be honest.
The spandex stretched tightly over his muscular frame. Ben might feel like a clown, but he’d turn a few heads in that getup. If he ever left the bathroom, that is.
I pushed the thought from my mind.
“You ready?”
Hi smiled broadly. “Just follow my lead.”
I felt a spike of anxiety, but choked it down. “Okay, Hiram. But remember, we’re investigating a crime, not demonstrating how clever you are.”
“Why can’t we do both?”
Hi slipped a badge around his neck and walked briskly toward the door.
The Yellow Shirt held up a hand as we approached.
She was no older than twenty—a short, squat woman squeezed into crumpled tan slacks and the ubiquitous event-staff polo. Square-cut bangs framed beady eyes that blinked behind a pair of banged-up wire-rim glasses. The rest of her lank brown hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail.
“Restricted area.” She had a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “Staff only.”
Hi smiled, held up the lanyard hanging from his neck. “Staff we are, thanks.”
The bangs rose. “Where’s your polo? Comic-Con staff are required to wear the official shirts. At all times.”
The upraised hand dropped to a radio at her hip.
I did not want her to unclip it.
Hi’s smile never wavered. “I hear you . . . Pam?”
The woman crossed meaty arms. “Stacey. Nobody named Pam works in the section.”
Hi wheeled on me, voice scolding. “Because we’re at the wrong door, no doubt!”
Startled, I actually stepped backward. “Sorry?”
I had no idea. Instinctually, I dropped my gaze to my sneakers.
“Sorry doesn’t ice the caviar in Mr. Cruise’s green room.” Hi used air quotes to drive home the point. “I know you’re new, Brittany, but this isn’t going to cut it. At all.”
Stacey edged a step closer. “Mr. Cruise? You mean, the movie star?”
Hi slapped a hand to his face, hiding an exaggerated grimace. “See what you did?” he hissed at me. Then suddenly, he was all smiles at Stacey. “Let’s keep that last bit between the three of us, what do you say?”
“Oh, yes sir.” Stacey nodded seriously, straightening her back. For a moment, I thought she actually might salute. “We’re trained to be very discreet.” Then her shoulders bounced as she broke out in giggles. “I’m a big fan!”
“Aren’t we all.” Hi winked. “We’re his advance team. He’s due to arrive any minute.” He turned, fixed me with a second glare. “And he’ll expect his cranberry lemonade when he does. And the rib platter!”
Stacey’s face grew troubled. “Aren’t you a little young to be working for . . . that particular gentleman?”
“Thanks. Get that all the time.” Hi tapped his temple. “Scientology.”
There was an awkward pause while he didn’t elaborate.
“Oh.” Stacey nodded slowly, confused but attempting to hide it. “Of course.”
“Welp, no more time to waste.” Hi took a step toward the door.
“The thing is—” Stacey squeaked, shifting her bulk to block him. “I really can’t let you back there with just your badges. It’s restricted. You’re supposed to have a wristband, too, or be on some kinda list, I guess, although they never gave me one for this door. You see, lots of regular people try to sneak back there, so we have to be sticklers for procedure. My boss, Dave, said no exceptions.”
Hi’s mouth hardened. “Fine. Contact your supervisor. We’ll need to be directed to the proper door.”
As Stacey reached for her walkie-talkie, I flashed him a panicked look.
What are you doing, Hiram?
Fortunately, my anxiety played right into Hi’s game.
Hands clasped before him, he gave me the evil eye.
“Stacey?” He didn’t glance her direction as he spoke. “When you get ahold of Dave, let him know that someone needs to be escorted from the premises.” To me: “This was strike three, Brittany. You’re out. Curtains. Game over. The end. Fin. I need assistants I can count on.”
Sensing Hi’s play, I finally spoke. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sto—house.”
Wince.
But I kept going.
“I thought this was the way back to the green room.” In my saddest-sack voice possible. “I didn’t think we needed those wristbands until we got to the stage. Honest! I can’t get fired, I need this internship for school. My dad will freak . . .”
Head dropping, I faked a few sniffles.
That’s when I saw them.
Glass fragments. Dotting the floor mat on which we stood.
Bingo!
“Mr. Stohouse?” Stacey looked genuinely pained. “I think she made an honest mistake. No need for anyone to lose their job or nothing.”
“This mistake is costing me time!” Hi thundered, hands flying up theatrically. “We need to be set up in ten minutes, but now we have to find another way back inside. And she forgot the wristbands.”
Hi’s performance was epic, but I was focused on the glass.
Shoulders heaving with a few fake sobs, I let my swag bag drop to the floor. Squatting to retrieve it, I scooped two tiny shards and shoved them in my back pocket. Then I curled my arms around my knees and blubbered like a baby.
Stacey broke. Wiping her hands on her slacks, she stepped aside and nodded toward the door. “How ’bout you hustle inside and we forget this ever happened?” Her wire rims glittered as she nervously scanned for observers, like a dealer watching for the cops. “Just this once. You can snag those wristbands and get ’em on. No one will be the wiser.”
Hi sighed. “Very well. I’ll excuse Brittany’s debacle, but only because we’re in a hurry.” Then he leaned close to Stacey and whispered conspiratorially, “Mr. Cruise could be coming through this door at any minute. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“This door? But they never . . . this really isn’t the way . . .” Stacey visibly gathered herself, practically quivering with excitement. “You got it, Mr. Stohouse.”
“No,” Hi answered solemnly, stepping around the guard and hurrying me toward the forbidden door. “You have got it, Stacey. In spades. I daresay you’re the best event-staff-security door watcher in this entire outfit. Bravo.”
Reaching the exit, I noticed a “No Trespassing” sign taped to its face.
Felt a jolt of electricity.
Stacey watched in surprise as I tore down the sign on our way through.
“This way, no one can follow us,” Hi said mysteriously. Nonsensically. “We were never here.”
Stacey nodded grimly. Flashed a hidden thumbs-up.
When the door closed behind us, I blew out a sigh of relief.
“That only worked because she’s a low-watt bulb,” I pointed out.
“I factored that in,” Hi insisted, hazel eyes twinkling. “But we’d better hustle. Wanna explain why you’re stealing paper signs?”
I tapped the blue-green duct tape hanging from its edges. “Looks exactly like the type on the ransom note.”
“Aha!” Hi nodded appreciatively. “What do you think it means?”
“At the very least, we know our crook used the same brand of duct tape as the event staff.” I reached into my back pocket. “But when you factor in these beauties, I think we’re on to something. These fragments were lying on the mat at Stacey’s feet.”
“Tape and glass.” Hi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Still pretty circumstantial. Even if the Terminator came through here, what now? Where’d he go?”
“No idea.” Slipping the fragments back into my shorts. “Look around.”
We stood at one end of a cavernous concrete hallway—brightly lit and painted a dull green, with steel doors lining both sides. A train of hand carts were pushed against one wall. We were the only people in sight, but that was unlikely to remain true for long.
“This must be how they move things in and out of the exhibit hall,” I said. “It’s a perfect exit point. We need to find out where the statue was taken.”
Hi ran a hand through his frizzy brown hair. “To the parking lot somehow? That’d be the obvious place.”
“Maybe.” But for some reason, I didn’t think so. “I bet security’s extra tight down there. Would the crooks really try to move the T-800 openly, like they owned it? Seems awfully risky.”
Footfalls sounded from down the corridor.
“Heads up!” Hi whispered. “We need to keep moving.”
He began walking purposefully toward an approaching Yellow Shirt.
A middle-aged Asian staffer with a stern expression and an official-looking clipboard moved to intercept us. His mouth opened, but Hi beat him to the trigger.
“Dave just radioed that the service elevator is on the fritz.” Hi casually twirled the staff badge hanging from his neck. “What’s the next best way to reach the garage level?”
I felt a stab of panic. Please don’t be Dave!
The man’s brow crinkled in confusion. “There’s nothing wrong with the lift. I just rode it up here.” He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. “See for yourself.”
“That Dave.” Hi shook his head in mock exasperation, moving purposefully down the hall corridor. “Thanks, bro.”
“No problem.” The man shrugged, then pushed through the door leading to Stacey’s domain.
“Why do we need the service elevator?” I hissed, hurrying to keep pace.
“Act like you belong somewhere, and you will.” Hi zoomed by the service elevator without breaking stride. “The key is to look like we know where we’re going, and never hesitate. Ask a question first. Put the other person on the defensive. Always make it seem like you’re in the middle of something important.”
“Huh.” At times, Hi was a genius.
We encountered two more staffers in rapid succession. Hi bombarded each with questions as we strode by, looking busy and mildly irritated. Fortunately, the deeper into the building we went, the less scrutiny we received. We were nearing the end of the hallway when I spotted more broken glass.
“Hi!” I snagged his arm, pointed. “Look. Right in front of an exit, too.”
He peered back down the long corridor. “We’ve come a pretty long way, Tor. That glass might be totally random.”
I dropped to my knees, picked a loose shard off the concrete floor, and set it to my left. Then I removed a floor-mat fragment from my back pocket, being careful not to confuse the two. Finally, I dug a piece I’d taken from the display case from my front pocket and placed it to the right of the other two samples.
“Or not.” I shoved my nose within inches of the three fragments. “Glass has several distinctive properties. Not like a fingerprint, but unique enough to determine if shards came from the same broken pane.”
I examined the sliver to my right. “We know the exhibit hall case was made of tempered glass. We need to figure out if either or both of these other two samples match it.”
“Tempered?” Hi’s leg worked as he kept watch down the corridor. Though a quick thinker, he’d be hard pressed to explain why I was on all fours, face to the concrete.
“Strengthened.” I kept my focus on the three shiny bits before me. “Tempered glass is chilled rapidly as it cools, compressing the surface area. The process makes it more resistant to breakage. The glass composing the display case was likely also laminated—heat-sealed with thin layers of plastic between several panes of tempered glass. That makes it very tough to break. But when it does shatter, the glass cracks into a million tiny pieces. That’s what we found onstage.”
I picked up each fragment in turn. Held it to the light. Spun it in my fingers.
“I need a microscope,” I muttered. “Straight eyeballing is so imprecise.”
“Hey, genius.” Hi tapped his temple. “Aren’t you holding a bag of science tricks?”
“Yes!” I pulled out Tempe’s packet and located the cheap magnifying glass. “Perfect. Good thinking, Hiram.”
“It’s what I do.”
I pored over each shard again. Then once more, until I was sure.
“The observable properties are indistinguishable.” I grinned up at Hi, then pumped a fist. “All three fragments appear identical in color, size, shape, thickness, and texture. We’d need a full lab work-up to be dead certain—fluorescence comparison, curvature analysis, assessment of optical and refractive properties, chemical composition—but right now I’m prepared to say that these shards originated from the same pane of glass.”
“I didn’t follow most of that, but fine. How’d a fragment get all the way out here?”
I rose and dusted off my shorts. “Locard’s Exchange Principle.”
“Picard?” Hiram’s eyes went Frisbee round. “You mean Jean-Luc? Like, from Star Trek?”
“Edmond Locard.” Honestly. “He was a pioneer in forensic science. French. Locard said that a perpetrator always brings something to a crime scene, and inevitably takes something from it as well. It’s the basic principle of forensic science: ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’”
Hi nodded thoughtfully. “So our perp unknowingly carried these fragments all the way down here. Leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel.”
“Yep. On his clothes. In his shoes. Inside the T-800 as he wheeled it away.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter how the jerk transferred trace evidence. Only that he did.”
I picked up the sample fragments and placed them in their respective pockets. “Shards this tiny can get everywhere, and be shed for long periods after leaving the scene. Our thieves carried at least a few all the way down this corridor. To this door.”
“Fine work, Dr. Tory. That means we need inside here.” He tried the knob. The door swung open easily. “Ha! Who needs Shelton?”
We slipped through and closed the door behind us.
“Holy moly!” Hi put a hand to his chest. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
The shadowy chamber was the size of a large classroom. Metal racks lined three walls, with several long tables running down the center, creating aisles. A rectangular window split the far wall, overlooking a grass field nestled between the convention center and shimmering San Diego Bay. A door in the far corner accessed an outdoor staircase that descended to the common below.
Hi was transfixed by what the racks and shelves contained.
“Good morning, sunshine!” He grinned ear to ear.
An astonishing array of wicked-looking medieval weapons filled the room. Hundreds of them. Swords. Maces. Axes. Spears. A dozen others I couldn’t begin to identify.
The collection was both mind-blowing and inexplicable. What was all this stuff for?
Hi lifted a sinuous dagger from the closest rack. “Meh. Too light. Probably made of plastic.” Setting it down, he knelt beside a broadsword one space over. “Now we’re talking. This guy’s a real head-chopper.”
Then Hi frowned as he gave the blade a closer inspection. “Boo. The edge is blunted. These are prop weapons. Damn good ones, though.”
A name was taped to each rack space. Some were normal: Steve Kirkham. Others were comically invented: The Blood Duke of Astorca. Half of the racks stood empty.
“This stuff must belong to the role-playing guys.” Hi hefted a bronze helmet topped with an iron spike. “I heard they have mock battles or something.”
There was a sudden clanging outside, followed by screams of pain.
We shared a startled look, then hurried over to the window.
On the field below, a dozen medieval warriors were attacking a makeshift castle wall. They brandished a variety of weapons, and wore armor of varying quality. Though howling energetically, many appeared to be in less-than-peak physical condition.
A smaller group was defending the barrier. The two sides hammered at each other, bellowing loudly, but moving at a careful speed. As each combatant was touched by a blade, he or she fell dramatically to the ground, thrashed about in agony, then lay still.
I covered my mouth in surprise, then chuckled through my fingers. “It’s some silly war game. A mock battle. This is unbelievably—”
“Wonderful,” Hi breathed.
I was astounded by the number of spectators. Elaborate, antiquated tents ringed the battlefield, which had been divided into quarters. Crude wooden stands had been set at intervals to provide for a better view. Surrounding it all were troubadours, wenches, barbarians, and other costumed players, congregating in fluid groups to watch, eat, flirt, and surreptitiously check their cell phones.
“A freakin’ Renaissance fair!” Hi shook his head slowly. “But for comic book weirdos. It’s like 300 out here. Who knew?”
“These people have been here awhile,” I mused, gazing down at the sprawling encampment. “Probably since the convention began, but certainly by early this morning. How could someone sneak an iconic, life-sized robot out this way unnoticed?”
As we watched, the wall’s defenders repelled the last of the attackers. The surviving warriors hooted and screamed, banging weapons against shields and slapping one another’s backs. The raucous celebration carried all the way to where we watched.
I snorted. “Camelot held. Hooray.”
A new group took the field, squaring their shoulders to face a second company forming up diagonally across the grassy expanse. A rare moment of quiet stretched, then dozens of horns began blaring. With bloodcurdling screams, the two groups charged forward at full speed and began whacking at each other.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “They do this all day?”
“All weekend,” Hi confirmed. “This is serious business, Brennan. Stop hating.”
“No, no.” Feeling a twinge of guilt. “Good for them. Seriously. I’m glad they have such an . . . enthusiastic hobby. A passion. Whatever . . . this is.”
I turned to face the equipment room. “But I’m at a loss. The T-800 isn’t here, and I don’t see how anyone could’ve moved it out.”
“Should we look for more glass?” Hi sounded dubious.
“Might as well. You take the left side, I’ll take the right.”
We separated and circled the room, eyes searching the floor, the racks, the tabletops. Came up empty. We traded zones to double-check, but still found nothing.
Hi’s shoulders rose and fell. “I guess we’ve run out of haystack needles.”
I was about to agree when I noticed something over his shoulder. “Hi, check it out.”
I slipped past him to inspect a corner rack. A sign declared the space to be the exclusive domain of Lord Mace of the Wolf Brotherhood and Bearer of Oathbreaker, the Sword of Despair.
Please.
The shelf held only three items: a ratty blue gym bag, a staff ID badge for someone named Frank Connors, and a half-used roll of duct tape.
Blue-green duct tape.
“That could match the ransom note.” I was comparing the roll to my pilfered tape sample when it hit me. “Wait. Connors. Connors! RoboCop said someone named Connors was on his setup crew. But the guy didn’t show up this morning.”
I arched one brow. “Apparently the missing employee was into war games.”
“I’d say the brawl outside qualifies.” Hi broke out his happy dance. “Oh man, we’re so good at this! Let’s toss his bag.”
My fingers itched to do just that, but I resisted. “We can’t. We don’t have the right.”
Hi looked at me curiously. “Hardly the worst of our crimes today, Tor.”
But I was firm. “I’m not the NSA. We need more than a name and a roll of tape before riffling someone’s personal belongings.”
“Bo-ring,” Hi sang. “That’s not how Batman gets it done.”
I made a decision. Quickly formed a plan.
A little crazy, but hey? I was improvising.
“Let’s find Connors first.” My eyes dropped to my watch. “We don’t have much time. Text Shelton and Ben and have them meet us by the tourney field outside.”
Hi began typing, then stopped. “Wait. Why are we going down there?”
I flashed a wicked smile. “Because you’re going to infiltrate the—” my eyes flicked to the labeled rack, “—Wolf Brotherhood, and find Frank Connors. Check him out up close.”
Hi’s face went still. “I’m gonna do what now?”
“Today’s your lucky day, Hiram. You get to be a knight.”