The Paladin Prophecy

by Mark Frost

  Will felt eyes find him from behind the diner window. They landed hard, like somebody poking him in the chest with two stiff fingers. He looked up but couldn’t see inside; the sun had just crested the hills behind him, glaring off the glass.

  “Don’t touch my ride.”

  Will heard the voice in his head and knew it came from whoever was watching. Low, gravelly, spiked with a sharp accent, bristling with menace.

  “Don’t touch it!” snapped Will.

  Startled, Schaeffer jerked his hand away.

  The bald man driving the sedan didn’t see the Prowler until the kids shifted away. He thought he might be hallucinating. He clicked the necro-wave filter onto the lens of their onboard scanner. The pictures of the family on-screen—father, mother, teenage boy—shrank to thumbnails. He focused on the hot rod until it filled the screen, pulsating with blinding white light.

  No doubt about it: This was a Wayfarer’s “flier.” The first field sighting in decades.

  Hands shaking, the bald man lifted his wrist mic and tabbed in. He tried to contain his excitement as he described what they’d found. Contact immediately approved a revised action.

  No one had ever tagged a Wayfarer. It was a historic opportunity. The boy could wait.

  The bald man ejected a black carbon-fiber canister the size of a large thermos from the nitrogen chamber. His partner picked it up and eased his window down. He raised the canister, chambered the Ride Along into the tracker bug’s payload slot, then broke the vacuum seal. The open window helped dissipate the sulfurous smell as he prepared to fire, but it couldn’t eliminate it.

  Nothing could.

  Will watched the black sedan ease forward, drawing even with them. He chanced a sidelong glance as it slid past. He saw a man holding a black canister up to the passenger window. Something skipped out of the canister, bounced onto the pavement, and came to rest. A wad of gum?

  Will waited until the sedan moved out of sight. He reached for his phone, ready to fire off an urgent text to Dad. Then the coffee shop door swung open. A massive pair of buckled, battered black military boots etched with faded licks of flame stepped into view below the door.

  That settles that. I don’t want any part of this guy, either. Will took off toward school in an all-out breakaway. Barking about his head start, the rest of the team scrambled after him as Will turned the corner.

  Behind them, the “wad of gum” in the street flipped over and sprouted twelve spidery legs supporting a needle-shaped head and liver-colored trunk. It skittered to the curb, sprang into the air, and attached to the Prowler’s left rear fender with an elastic thwap, just as the engine rumbled to life.

  As the hot rod drove off, the tracker bug crawled up and around the fender, then snickered forward along the Prowler’s side, heading toward the driver. Before he reached the corner, the driver extended his left arm to signal a turn. The bug sprouted an inch-long spike from its snout and launched into the air toward the back of the driver’s neck, ready to deliver its invisible payload.

  The driver swung the Prowler around in a controlled skid, and what looked like a small derringer appeared in his left hand. He tracked the airborne bug into his sights and pulled the trigger, and a silent beam of white light pulsed from the barrel. The tracker bug—and the invisible Ride Along it carried—puckered, fried, and dropped to the ground, a burnt black cinder on the road.

  The derringer disappeared back up the driver’s sleeve as he completed his turn—a full, smooth 360-degree spin—and kept going.

  DR. ROBBINS

  Anxiety gnawed at Will like termites as he ran. He never let up, glancing over his shoulder only once. No black car, no Prowler, no more texts from Dad. And no other runners: Will arrived at school alone. He hit his stopwatch and was shocked to see that he’d covered the 1.2 miles from the diner to school in 3:47.

  His best times shattered, twice, in less than an hour, and he’d hardly broken a sweat. He’d always known he was fast. He’d found out he could run like a deer at ten, when a dog chased him and he discovered he had another gear. But when he told his parents about it, they’d been dead-set against letting anyone see him run. They wouldn’t even let him try out for cross-country until this year, and only after he promised to hold back in practice and meets. Will still didn’t know how fast he really was, but based on this morning, he could have crushed every record in sight.

  Will was already halfway dressed for class when the Rangers staggered into the locker room almost two minutes later. Gasping, a few threw strange looks his way.

  “What the hell, West,” whispered Schaeffer.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Will. “Don’t know what got into me.”

  Will hurried out before anyone could ask more questions. If nobody else on the team had kept time, maybe by this afternoon they’d forget how fast he’d run. He would hang back in practice, in line with his mediocre standards, and they wouldn’t give the torching he’d just laid down another thought.

  But he still couldn’t explain it to himself.

  Will hustled through the halls and slipped into his seat a minute before the start of history class. He checked his messages one last time. Nothing. Dad had either gone into a breakfast meeting or headed out for his morning run.

  Will switched the ringer to vibrate as the bell sounded. Classmates trudged in looking cranky and sleep deprived, fumbling with their phones as they digitally wrangled their frantic social lives. No one paid any attention to him. They never did. Will made sure of that. The perpetual “new kid,” Will had long ago learned how to cork his emotions deep inside, showing nothing but a bland mask to his peers.

  #46: IF STRANGERS KNOW WHAT YOU’RE FEELING, YOU GIVE THEM THE ADVANTAGE.

  Will was the tall rangy kid who always sat near the back, slumping to minimize his height, never making waves. The way he dressed, the way he spoke, the way he moved through life: quiet, contained, invisible. Exactly the way his parents had taught him.

  #3: DON’T DRAW ATTENTION TO YOURSELF.

  But a pounding bass line of worry still pulsed in his chest: RUN, WILL. DON’T STOP. Could the timing of Dad’s texts—at the moment the black car spotted him—be a coincidence?

  #27: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS COINCIDENCE.

  Mrs. Filopovich launched into her daily drone. Today’s subject: the Napoleonic Wars. The annoying buzz that leaked from the intercom on the wall above her desk sounded more interesting. Half the class struggled to stay conscious; he saw two wake-up jolts as chins slipped off propped-up hands. The air in the room curdled, like even the oxygen had given up hope.

  Will’s mind drifted to the last thing Dad had said before leaving two days ago: “Pay attention to your dreams.” Suddenly he flashed onto the dream that had eluded him earlier. He closed his eyes to reel it back in and caught a single, fleeting image:

  Snow falling. Stillness in an immense forest, large trees laden white.

  For all their moving around, he’d never once seen snow in real life until that frosting on the mountains this morning. But this felt more real than a dream. Like a place he’d actually been before.

  The door opened. The school psychologist slipped in, making an exaggerated effort to not be noticed, like a mime overacting a burglary. Will knew the man vaguely. He’d conducted Will’s new-student orientation tour three months ago, in August. Mr. Rasche. Midthirties. Pear-shaped in corduroy and loud plaid, a prickly academic’s beard fringing a cascade of chins.

  Rasche whispered to Mrs. Filopovich. The class stirred to life, grateful for anything that spared them from Death by Bonaparte. The adults scanned the class.

  Mr. Rasche’s eyes settled on Will. “Will West?” he asked with a weird lopsided smile. “Would you come with me, please?”

  Alarms tripped through Will’s nervous system. He stood up, wishing he could disappear, as a gossipy ripple of intrigue ran through the class.

  “Bring your things,” said Mr. Rasche, as bland as milk.

  Rasche waited at the door and t
hen led the way, springing up on his toes with every step.

  “What kind of trouble is this?” asked Will.

  “Trouble? Oh, no, no, no,” said Rasche, forcing a canine grin. “It’s ‘all good.’ ” Rasche hooked his fingers around his words with air quotes.

  Yikes.

  “But I feel you, dawg,” said Rasche. He offered a fist bump to show he was on Will’s side. “It’s all pret-ty awesome and amazing. As you will see.”

  As they walked past the long counter outside the principal’s office, the staff behind the counter beamed at Will. One even gave him a thumbs-up.

  Something’s totally messed up.

  Principal Ed Barton bounded out of his office. The hearty, pie-faced man pumped Will’s hand, as breathless and buoyant as if Will had just won the state science fair.

  “Mr. West, come in, come in. Good to see you again. How are you today?”

  Even weirder. On any other day, armed with Will’s class photo and a bloodhound, Barton wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a three-kid lineup that included Siamese twins.

  But then Will always made a point of missing school photo day.

  “To be honest, I’m kind of worried,” said Will as he and Mr. Rasche followed Barton into his office.

  “About what, Will?”

  “That everyone’s being so nice because you’re about to lay some tragic news on me.”

  Barton chuckled and steered him inside. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

  Rasche closed the door behind them. A woman stood up from a chair in front of Barton’s desk and extended her hand. She was as tall as Will, athletic and lithe, wearing a dark tailored suit. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a crisp ponytail. A pricey leather briefcase rested at her flashy spiked heels.

  “Will, this is Dr. Robbins,” said Barton.

  “Really nice to meet you, Will,” she said. Her grip was strong, and her violet eyes sharp.

  Whoever she is, Will thought, the doctor is smoking hot.

  “Dr. Robbins is here with some incredibly exciting news,” said Barton.

  “You’re a hard-core facts and numbers guy, aren’t you, Will?” asked Robbins.

  “As opposed to …”

  “A sucker for marketing slogans and subliminal advertising designed to paralyze your conscious mind and shut down rational impulse control by stimulating your lower brain?”

  Will hesitated. “That depends on what you’re trying to sell me.”

  Dr. Robbins smiled. She leaned down, picked up her briefcase, and slipped out a sleek black metallic laptop. She set it on Barton’s desk and opened it. The screen lit up with a waterfall of data that arranged artfully into animated graphs.

  Principal Barton sat down behind his desk. “Will, do you remember the standardized test you and your classmates took in September?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Will.

  Dr. Robbins said, “That test is conducted by the National Scholastic Evaluation Agency. On every tenth grader at every public school in the country.” She pointed to a large cluster of squiggling lines in the middle of the chart on her laptop’s screen. “These are the nationwide average scores they’ve collected over the last five years.”

  Robbins punched a key; the image zoomed in on the top of the chart, which blossomed into a smaller group of what looked like dancing sixteenth notes. “These are the scores of National Merit Scholars,” she said. “The top two percent of the database.”

  Dr. Robbins punched another key, and the image moved again, zooming in on a single red dot above the highest cluster. Alone.

  Tendrils of fear wrapped around Will’s gut. Uh-oh, he thought.

  “This,” she said, “is you. One in, to be precise, 2.3567 million.” She cocked her head to the side and smiled again, dazzling and sympathetic.

  Will’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to hide his shock as a single thought raced through his mind: How did this happen?

  “Attaboy, Will,” said Barton, rubbing his hands with glee. “What do you think about that?”

  Will had attended the man’s stunningly average high school for less than two weeks when he took that test, but Barton clearly intended to grab whatever credit he could for his results.

  “Will?” asked Dr. Robbins.

  “Sorry. I’m kind of … speechless.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” she said. “We can go over specifics if you like—”

  A buzzer on Barton’s console sounded. Barton snapped his fingers at Rasche, who turned and opened the door. Will’s mother walked in wearing a scarf around her neck, her eyes hidden behind her big sunglasses.

  Will looked for some indication of her disappointment—he had screwed up big-time and blown his anonymity—but his mother just smiled at him. “Isn’t it exciting?” she said, rushing to give him a hug. “I came as soon as Dr. Robbins called.”

  Will pulled back and caught his reflection in his mother’s mirrored sunglasses. That was odd. She never wore sunglasses indoors. Was she wearing them now so he couldn’t see her eyes? She was acting all excited for the benefit of the other adults in the room, but Will knew she had to be really angry with him.

  As Belinda stepped back, Will caught a faint trace of cigarettes. Odd. She must have been around some smokers at her office. Could workers in California legally light up anymore?

  Will’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Dad: CONGRATULATIONS, SON! Mom must have called him with the news.

  Will’s mom shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with everyone in the room. Then Dr. Robbins took charge again. “If you’d indulge me, Will,” she said, “and if everyone will excuse us, I’d like you to take one other quick, simple test.”

  “What for?”

  “Curiosity,” she said simply. “When somebody shatters the existing statistical model, scientific minds crave confirmation. What do you say? Are you up for it?”

  “If I say no, what’s the worst that could happen?” asked Will.

  “You go back to class, finish your day, and forget we ever had this conversation,” she said.

  Talk about a convincing argument. “Let’s do it,” said Will.

  THE TEST

  Will trailed Dr. Robbins down the hall to an empty office with a small table and two chairs. A black tablet computer the size of a small square chalkboard rested on the table. Robbins sat on one side and silently offered Will the opposite chair.

  Dr. Robbins tapped the tablet and it powered up with a faintly audible whoosh. Using her fingers, she stretched out the dimensions of the borderless black square the way a sculptor might manipulate wet clay. Except the tablet was made of metal. When she was done, the tablet had grown in size until it nearly covered the entire table.

  “What the heck is this thing?” asked Will.

  “Ah. That would be telling,” she said playfully. “Put your hands here, please.”

  The glowing outlines of a pair of hands appeared on the screen. The blackness beneath the lines glistened, as if there were unseen depths below. Will felt like he was staring into the still water of a moonlit lake.

  Will set his hands down just inside the lines. The instant he made contact, the screen thrummed with energy. The lines glowed brighter, then faded, leaving his hands floating on top of a bottomless liquid void.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” Dr. Robbins said. “Feel free to respond any way you like. There are no wrong answers.”

  “What if you ask the wrong questions?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Will Melendez West.”

  “Melendez. That’s your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Yes.”

  A pleasant wave of heat rose from the screen, washing over his hands like soft seawater before subsiding.

  “And Will’s not short for William?”

  “It’s not short for anything. They wanted a cooperative kid, so they named me the opposite of won’t.”

  She didn’t smile. “How old are you, Will?”

&
nbsp; “Fifteen.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “August fifteenth. Every year, like clockwork.”

  A swirling riot of colors erupted from the depths below, then disappeared. Will had the disturbing thought that if he pushed his hands through the surface, he would fall right into the screen.

  “Is this some kind of lie detector?” he asked.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Would it make you more comfortable if it were?”

  “Is that a question from the test, or are you really asking?”

  “Does it make a difference to you?”

  “Are you going to answer all of my questions with questions?”

  “Why, yes, I am, Will,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m trying to distract you.”

  Will’s defenses ratcheted up a notch. “Keep up the good work.”

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Cerulean blue. I had a little zinc tube of that paint once in art class. Real dark blue, like the sky on a cold, clear day—”

  “It’s not an essay question. Where were you born?”

  “Albuquerque,” he said. “We only lived there a few months. I can spell that for you, if you like.”

  Subtle tones sounded from deep beneath his hands, like muted woodwinds. Corresponding shapes—obscure mathematical symbols, or some archaic language he couldn’t decipher—swam around below him in complex patterns.

  “It’s not a spelling bee, either. What’s your father’s name?”

  “Jordan West.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He’s a freelance rodeo clown.”

  “Hmm,” she said, chewing on her lip. “That might have been a lie.”