The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp by Rick Yancey Page A

were some in my Order, Kropp, who believed the Sword is actually the blade of the Archangel Michael, given to Arthur to unite mankind.”
    I remembered Mr. Samson telling me that the Sword was not made by human hands.
    â€œThat didn’t turn out too good, did it?” I asked.
    â€œIt is certainly not the first time we have disappointed heaven,” Bennacio answered.

17
    I stopped just outside of a little town in the Shenandoah Valley called Edinburg to pee and to find Bennacio something other than a corn dog to eat. The rain had slackened to a gray mist and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. I had left Knoxville with just the clothes on my back, no jacket, no umbrella, and both would probably come in handy, especially in Nova Scotia, which I pictured as rainy and windswept and desolate.
    I wondered if the Tuttles were looking for me back in Knoxville or if they even cared to look for me. I thought about missing school and about Amy Pouchard, and all of that—the Tuttles and Amy and school—felt to me like it had happened to somebody else, like the memories weren’t my memories but the hijacked memories of another kid. It was as if I left more than the little I had back in Knoxville. Somehow, I had left the me that made me me.
    We ducked into a McDonald’s and Bennacio ordered a Big Mac and a Coke. He asked for some plasticware, and I wondered how he planned to eat a Big Mac with a plastic fork. I ordered a large Coke to keep me awake on the road and a fish sandwich. I waited in the car with the food while Bennacio used the pay phone outside the restaurant. He talked for about five minutes. His gait was thrown off by his wound and he moved slowly, as if each step cost him something.
    He sat down, closed the door, and said, “Lock the doors, Kropp.”
    I was about to ask him why, when the back doors opened and two big men slid into the backseat.
    â€œToo late,” Bennacio said.
    Something sharp pressed into the side of my neck. A voice behind me whispered, “Drive.”
    I backed out of the space using the rearview, where I could see the side of someone’s square-shaped head and the large hand pressing the black dagger against my neck. The skin over every inch of my body was tingling. The other guy was sitting back in his seat, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
    â€œTurn right.”
    I pulled out of the parking lot and turned right, away from the on-ramp.
    â€œWhere am I going?” I asked.
    â€œWhere do you think?” the guy behind me cracked. I guessed he was saying I was going to my grave or to hell, probably to hell for all the people dead because of me.
    Bennacio said, “Think carefully about what you are doing. I do not wish to kill you.”
    â€œShut up,” the man sitting behind him said.
    â€œThere is still time,” Bennacio said. “If you repent now, heaven may still receive you.”
    The guy holding the dagger to my throat laughed.
    â€œWhatever Mogart has offered you—is it worth the price of your immortal soul?” Bennacio asked calmly. He might have been talking about the weather.
    The guy behind me said something to his buddy. It sounded like French. His buddy grunted and said, “Repos!”
    â€œThink of your wives, your children,” Bennacio said. “Would you have them widowed, fatherless? If you do not value your own lives, can you not consider theirs?”
    â€œSpeak again and the fat kid dies,” the guy behind me said. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw his hand was shaking slightly. Bennacio was getting to him. I thought about what Mogart told me, about the will of most men being weak. I also was thinking that just because a guy has an oversized head and a big body, you shouldn’t call him fat.
    We drove a few miles until we passed a sign that said “George Washington National Forest.” I was directed onto this access road marked