"You've seen it?" Kelso asked.
"Every day," Faulks replied.
Kelso looked over at Henderson, his associate in these matters. Henderson shrugged as if to say Faulks was on the up and up.
"Describe it."
"It's a skull. What can I say?"
"Hopefully more than that if you want to be paid."
Faulks shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Okay. It's an engraved skull. Every square inch of it is covered with words and pictures."
Kelso fought to keep his excitement contained. This idiot was talking about the fabled Scrimshaw Man. But it was no fable. He existed. Kelso knew this because he possessed every part of the Scrimshaw Man except for the skull. He'd spent twenty years tracking down the pieces. He should have known Canchelskis would have the last and most vital piece. Canchelskis routinely ridiculed Kelso for his belief in the Scrimshaw Man, both privately and publicly. Only last April, after Kelso had written a feature article in Fine Arts magazine about the Scrimshaw Man, Canchelskis had followed up with a rebuttal piece, describing the Scrimshaw Man as “an art world legend of the P.T. Barnum variety.” Kelso would enjoy rubbing the hypocrite’s nose in it.
Essentially, the engraved skeleton was an elaborate map leading to a lost Spanish treasure belonging to the galleon, Libertad. In 1811, the last survivor of the wreck, a midshipman, requested that after his death, his skeleton be used to tell the story of the ship’s loss and its location. He left elaborate instructions for Franklin Weir, an American scrimshaw artist. It took Weir five years to complete the work. It was the stuff of legends for over a hundred years until the pieces began appearing in the 1940s. Nothing would keep Kelso from obtaining the final piece.
"If it weren't so damn creepy, it would be a piece of art,” Faulks said.
It is a piece of art, you moron, Kelso thought. "And you can get me into Canchelskis' home?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Even though he fired you?"
Faulks’ face crumpled into a sneer. "Because Canchelskis fired me, I can get you in."
Kelso didn't like inside men. They were first people the cops came after, but it couldn't be helped in this case. The cops could come after Faulks all they liked but they wouldn’t find him. He’d be long gone, out of the country with more money than his feeble mind could imagine.
"Okay," Kelso said. "Security—how do I get past it?"
Faulks produced an untidily folded sheet of paper covered with crude diagrams and security system passwords and slid it across Kelso’s desk. Deciphering the scrawl, Kelso decided he had everything he needed.
"These passwords would have been changed the moment you were fired."
Faulks grinned. "True, but those aren’t my passwords. They belong to a groundsman. The guy can’t remember his name without someone telling him. He gave me his codes so he wouldn't lock himself out. Trust me, that information is golden."
And Kelso was going to have to trust Faulks. He was taking a risk, but with the Scrimshaw Man so close to completion, he'd chance it. He pushed seventy-five thousand in cash across the desk. Faulks snatched it up and stuffed it in his pockets.
"Get him out of the country," Kelso instructed Henderson.
***
Although it ate Kelso up, he bided his time before breaking in. He waited until Canchelskis left for a vacation to Europe, taking his staff with him. A security firm protected the house. Now Kelso and Henderson were waiting for the security detail to complete its hourly sweep of the grounds before moving in.
When the security detail’s van was distant taillights in the night, Henderson worked the lock with his picks. He was a good lock pick. Kelso had called on Henderson's talents on many occasions when more legal approaches had failed to secure the objects he desired. Truth be told, Kelso liked it when he couldn't get his way. He preferred going outside of the law to get what he wanted. He was a hunter, and hunters never paid for their trophies. Henderson gave the pick a final flick of the wrist and the lock popped open. Kelso dashed through the door and over to the security panel. He punched in the passwords before the alarm system automatically activated itself. The telltale beep-beep-beep warning ceased.
"Faulks is proving to be worth every penny," Kelso remarked with a smile.
"So far."
They proceeded to what Faulks called the Antiquities Room. Essentially, Canchelskis had created a museum within his home. Extravagant, yes, but no less extravagant than the one in his own home. Not only was the Antiquities Room a museum, it was also as impregnable as a bank vault. The room was at basement level. A smart move. Below ground meant no soft entry points, like windows. The only way in was through the door or with a backhoe and it would take a backhoe and then some to get inside. According to Faulks, a steel sheath encased the room. Kelso wished he'd invested in this same kind of security for himself. The moment he possessed the Scrimshaw Man's skull, he would. He'd already commissioned a contractor. Work would start in the morning.
Understandably, getting into the Antiquities Room proved tougher than getting into the house. They needed thumbprint verification and they had gotten it. Earlier in the week, Kelso had orchestrated for Canchelskis to appear at a luncheon to discuss legends of the art world. After the event, Kelso had a cast of Canchelskis' thumbprint made from one he'd left on a water glass. Henderson pressed the rubber thumb cast against the scanner when requested. The doors unlocked.
"Almost there," Kelso said.
Henderson cracked smile. Finally, a sign of belief.
Kelso found the bank of light switches and flicked them on. Canchelskis' art collection appeared from the darkness. His taste for every art discipline was breathtaking. He lived up to his reputation as a premier collector. If Kelso shared Canchelskis’ tastes for all things art, he would have wiped the man out, but he loved only the Scrimshaw Man and the treasures it could unlock.
The skull wasn't the collection's main feature. Henderson discovered it tucked away in one corner. It wasn't even protected by a secondary alarm system. Canchelskis didn't deserve to own such a prize. Kelso hesitated picking it up. He just wanted to admire it. The intricate engravings were as he imagined. The Spanish, when translated, would explain everything and unlock the Scrimshaw Man's two hundred year old secret. It was finally his. He lifted the skull off its pedestal. The euphoria of finally owning the complete Scrimshaw Man passed as swiftly as it’d come.
"What's wrong?" Henderson asked.
“It's a fake." He tossed the skull to Henderson. "It's a damn fake."
"This is plastic."
"I didn't say it was a good fake. You still got someone following Faulks?"
"Yeah."
"Tell them to get my money back. Let's get out of here."
Henderson went to place the skull back on its pedestal. "You should take a look at this."
Kelso snatched the skull from Henderson.
"Underneath."
On the underside of the skull were two words, not in Spanish. They read: Thanks Kelso.
Kelso dropped the skull. They didn't bother covering their tracks. They charged out of the house and into the car. Henderson drove at breakneck speed, slicing his way through the late night traffic. The police were waiting for them when they reached Kelso’s home.
Henderson brought the BMW to a halt at the end of the drive. Two detectives met them as they approached the house.
"Mr. Kelso, I have to inform you that your home has been burglarized."
Kelso brushed by them. The detectives followed at his heels. They reeled off what they were doing about the break-in, but he wasn't listening. None of it was important.
He went straight to the Scrimshaw Room. The skeleton was gone. The glass case where he kept the artifact was shattered.
He couldn't believe he'd come so close only to lose it all. Canchelskis had set him up by playing to his vanity, and it had worked. Kelso tasted bile.
"Was it valuable?" a detective asked.
"More than you know." He thought of Canchelskis beginning the adventure of a lifetime. "More than you know."