“All ready?” Kingdom said. Without waiting for an answer she threw them rocketing forward, smashing through the garage doors. Small machines crunched under their wheels and bounced off the windshield. Then they were on the main driveway. As they approached Harry’s ruined car, Kingdom accelerated. The woozy life-sizer turned weakly and was knocked sideways, leaving a dent in the hood. Harry extricated himself from the other car and clambered in.

“Pleased to meet you,” he puffed at Kingdom as he squeezed in beside Alex. “Nice motor.”

“Shame we had to give them that painting.” Alex’s grandfather sighed grimly, as they headed for the open gates.

“Ah, but we didn’t,” Kingdom said cheerily as the car shot out onto rough country road.

“Eh?”

“The painting we gave up was a decoy,” she said. “Bait. When we heard about the first paintings being stolen, I had a copy made. I took the real painting out of the frame and replaced it. So that’s what they have: a fine old frame, holding a useless new forgery. The real painting’s rolled up in here.” She patted the sword sheath propped beside her leg and changed gear.

“What an entirely devious woman,” Alex’s grandfather said. “We’re absolutely delighted to make your acquaintance, aren’t we, Alex? Alex?”

For a moment, Alex said nothing. He was utterly drained by the narrowness of the escape, shaking from the power he had finally unleashed, and still unsure about quite how he had done it. The Kenzie connection was certain, but it perplexed him. But, for the moment, he was far more concerned with the other idea he had just finished putting together.

“It’s not,” he panted.

“Eh?” His grandfather turned.

“I’ve worked it out,” Alex said bleakly. “What Harry tried to tell us. It’s not. I think he meant it’s not the paintings. It’s not the paintings they’re after, Grandad. Right, Harry?”

“Aw, crumbs.” Harry’s face fell. “Lad’s right. I’ve just remembered.”

“What?” the old man said. “Not with you.”

Alex looked at Harry. They spoke in unison:

“It’s the frames.”

XXIX.

GET THE PICTURE

“An that’s ’ow I managed to grab back the painting I rescued.”

Harry had been going over his story while the car tore eastward. They had joined a flat, busy highway.

“They were taking the frames apart,” Harry went on. “They’d chucked the painting aside. Then, lessee . . . Yeah, they were touching pieces of the frames against rocks, like dowsing sticks. All the broken rocks. The whatchamacallit, pulpit. Chanting, low. Yeah, an’ that’s when the glowing started.”

The Rolls growled contentedly. Dogs snored. The unconscious Metz made a small, unhappy sound deep in his throat.