The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

“Hello, Mike. It’s Rich from surveillance.”

The detective leaned forward in his seat. “Yeah, Rich. Tell me you’ve got something.”

“Yeah, well, you know how you told me to keep an eye on the email accounts of Puddles and his accomplices?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, one of the accounts, the Google account for a Ms. Ying Koh, was just used in Washington, Vermont.”

Weatherspoon leapt from his seat and quickly lumbered over to the captain’s office, hanging up the phone as he entered. “Great. Thanks, Rich.”

As the detective burst into the office, the captain distractedly looked up from his papers and removed his glasses. In all the years he’d been with Weatherspoon, he’d never seen the great bear of a man so excited. “What do you got . . . besides meatball sauce all over your face?”

“Puddles and his associates are in Washington, Vermont,” said Weatherspoon, wiping the sauce from his face.

“Great. Let’s go get ’em. Call the Vermont FBI. They probably won’t be there long.”

“Got it.” Weatherspoon turned to exit the captain’s office.

“Oh, Spoon? Before you do that, make sure to call Agent Beel. I want to be certain we don’t step on any toes.”

Weatherspoon rolled his eyes at the thought of having to talk to that bleached-blond moron and his mysterious partner, but an order was an order.

“Got it.”

The detective quickly pulled out Beel’s card from his tattered wallet and dialed from his desk phone.

“Agent Beel?”

“Yeah, this is Beel. How are you, Detective Weatherspoon?”

Weatherspoon paused. How did he know it was me? This guy must really know voices. “Um, good. I’m calling because we just got a lead on Puddles. He’s in Vermont.”

“Great work, Detective,” said Beel. “I’ll get a team down to Washington immediately.”

Weatherspoon resisted. “Oh, that’s alright, Agent Beel. This is my case. I can follow up with the feds.”

“Thank you for the offer, Detective, but that will just make it more complicated. I can take it from here. I’ll be sure to inform Captain Willard that I assumed command and that your work should be commended.”

Beel hung up.

Weatherspoon stood at his desk with the receiver in his hand. He had just broken the case open, and now it was being ripped out of his hands. Dazed, he slumped into his chair.

How did he know they were in Washington? I just told him they were in Vermont.

Chapter 23

Albert’s hands trembled.

Today was the day. Over the past few weeks, with the help of Gabe’s combat-training glasses, he had mastered the Tree and could defeat all the local amateurs that Brick could find. Albert was dispatching Salazar with ease, patiently anticipating every punch and countering with coldhearted efficiency. He’d even forced the stubborn man to take his toothpick out of his mouth before the fight. He could see his fights unravel in advance just as he was once able to see the moves and countermoves played out on a chessboard. First a telegraphed punch, then an off-balance grab, then a swift kick, all revealing themselves like a dance. At times, he felt as though the fight were nothing more than a reenactment of an exchange that had already taken place.

The words of the Chinese military philosopher Sun Tzu now resonated with Albert: “Every battle is won before it is ever fought.” Before his fights with Raphael or even Turner, Albert knew what they would do and what would happen. Winning was just a matter of reacting and acting.

But with Brick Travis, things were different.

Despite his best efforts, Albert had still been unable to defeat Brick in hand-to-hand combat. The range of attack moves at Brick’s disposal made the glasses’ calculations unreliable at best. He would stand in positions where the glasses predicted an 80 percent chance of a right jab, but then Brick would issue a kick to the groin, debilitating Albert and ending the fight. Even when Albert did anticipate the correct move, he would often react too late. The rules of the game changed every time they played.

Earlier that week, frustrated with the consistent beatings, Albert had allowed his ego to get the better of him and had pledged that by the end of the week he would defeat Brick Travis. Brick gleefully accepted.

Now, this evening as the sun faded and starlight peeked through the barn, Albert stood in one corner of the ring, legs quivering, hot sweat pouring from his face, staring at the man he had promised to conquer. On the other side of the ring, Brick’s eyes glowed and his mouth was curved in the snarl of a predator confident of victory. The smell of straw and sweat tickled the edge of Albert’s nose. He looked down at his oversized red boxing gloves, which looked like two overripe tomatoes ready to burst.

“Ignore him,” said Turner, who had taken on the role of Albert’s trainer for this fight. Turner grabbed both of Albert’s wiry arms and pivoted the scared student toward him. “Look, I know you’re afraid of Sergeant Travis, but you have to find a way to put that aside. You cannot win if there are emotions inside of you. If you feel fear or anxiety, he will be able to beat you. But if you can calm your mind and clear those emotions away, then you can use your reasoning to beat him.”

Albert nodded, breathing heavily, jogging in place as if to shake away the fear. “I know, but he’s just so good. So fast.”

Turner frowned. “Have I taught you nothing? It doesn’t matter how strong or fast he is. You can see the future.”

Albert snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“No, I’m serious. How many times have you fought this man?”

“I don’t know, probably eight times.”

“Exactly. You know how he fights. You know what he’s going to do. Think if you played a man for two weeks in chess. Do you think there is any way he would beat you after you had played him eight times?”

“Probably not.”

“Not probably—from what I hear of how you used to play as a child, never. Now I want you