“Whenever you’re ready, Butler. The target is not getting any closer.”
Out on the cables, Artemis the elder could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Butler had drawn his pistol and was climbing over the rails to get a better shot.
Artemis had not intended to speak, as interaction with his younger self could have serious repercussions for the future, but the words were out before he could stop them.
“Stay back. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Oh, the irony.
“Ah, he speaks,” called young Artemis across the abyss. “How fortunate that we can understand each other. Well, understand this, stranger, I will have that silky sifaka or it will die. Make no mistake.”
“You must not do this. There’s too much at stake.”
“I must do it. I have no choice. Now send the animal over, or Butler will shoot.”
Through all of this, the lemur sat perched on fourteen-year-old Artemis’s head, scratching the stitching of his hood.
So the two boys who were one boy locked eyes for a long tense moment.
I would have done it, thought Artemis the elder, shocked by the cruel determination in his own blue eyes.
And so he gingerly reached up one hand and plucked the silky sifaka from his head.
“You have to go back,” he said softly. “Go back for the nice treat. And if I were you, I’d stick close to the big human. The little one isn’t very nice.”
The lemur reached out and tweaked Artemis’s nose, much as Beckett might have done, then turned and trotted along the cable toward Butler, nose sniffing the air, nostrils flaring as they located the sweet scent of Artemis’s goody bag.
In a matter of seconds it sat curled in the crook of young Artemis’s elbow, contentedly dipping its long fingers into the sap. The young boy’s face glowed with victory.
“Now,” he said, “I think it best that you stay exactly where you are until we leave. I think fifteen minutes should be fine. After that, I advise you to be on your way and count yourself fortunate that I did not have Butler sedate you. Remember the pain that you are feeling now. The ache of utter defeat and hopelessness. And if you ever consider crossing swords with me again, review your memory of this pain, and perhaps you will think twice.”
Artemis the elder was forced to watch as Butler stuffed the lemur into a duffel bag, and boy and bodyguard commenced their climb down the service ladder. Several minutes later the Bentley’s headlights scythed the darkness as the car pulled away from Rathdown Park and onto the motorway. Straight to the airport, no doubt.
Artemis reached up and gripped the winch handles. He was not beaten yet—far from it. He intended to cross swords with his ten-year-old self again just as soon as he possibly could. If anything, the boy’s mocking speech had fueled his determination.
Remember the pain? thought Artemis. I hate myself. I really do.
CHAPTER 8
A BLOB OF PHLEGM
By the time Artemis had made his way down from the pylon, Holly had disappeared. He’d left her by the tunnel mouth, but there was nothing in the spot now except mud and footprints.
Footprints, he thought. Now I suppose I need to track Holly. I really must read The Last of the Mohicans.
“Don’t bother following those,” said a voice from the ditch. “False trail. I laid it in case the big human took our LEP friend along for a snack.”
“That was good thinking,” said Artemis, squinting through the foliage. A shaggy shadow detached itself from a hillock and became Mulch Diggums. “But why did you bother? I thought the LEP were your enemy.”
Mulch pointed a stubby mud-crusted finger. “You are my enemy, human. You are the planet’s enemy.”
“And yet you are willing to help me for gold.”
“A stupendous amount of gold,” said Mulch. “And possibly some fried chicken. With barbecue sauce. And a large Pepsi. And maybe more chicken.”
“Hungry?”
“Always. A dwarf can eat only so much dirt.”
Artemis didn’t know whether to giggle or groan. Mulch would always have trouble grasping the gravity of situations, or perhaps he liked to give that impression.
“Where’s Holly?”
Mulch nodded toward a grave-shaped mound of earth.
“I buried the captain. She was moaning quite loudly.
Arty this and Arty that, with a few Mothers thrown in.” Buried? Holly is claustrophobic.
Artemis dropped to his knees and scooped the earth from the mound with his bare hands. Mulch let him at it for a minute, then sighed dramatically.
“Let me do it, Mud Boy. You’ll be there all night.”
He strolled over and casually thrust his hand into the mound, chewing his lip as he searched for a specific spot.
“Here we go,” grunted the dwarf, yanking out a short branch. The mound vibrated then collapsed into small heaps of pebbles and clay. Holly was underneath, unhurt.
“It’s a complex structure called a na-na,” said Mulch, brandishing the twig.
“As in ...?”