The Paladin Prophecy

by Mark Frost

  “Got you covered, bro. And don’t worry about your old man, okay? He’s gonna pull through fast once he knows you’re there for him.”

  Will leaned back and took some deep breaths. He was starved, shaking with exhaustion and stress. As they drove out of town, he watched the lights of Ojai fade behind them, wondering if he’d ever see them again.

  What would the Mystic 8 Ball say about that? Outlook not so good.

  A ping from his iPhone: a new voice mail. Will plugged in his earbuds and hit PLAY. Dad’s voice. Low and controlled.

  “We’re really worried about you, son. It’s not like you to run off like this. But I want you to know we’re not upset with you. If it has to do with this new school, we would never force you to do something like that. Your uncle Bill went away to school and he had a great experience, but it has to be up to you. Just let us know you’re okay. That’s the only thing that matters. Before you do anything, or go anywhere, please talk to us first.”

  The message ended. Will didn’t have an uncle Bill. Will felt a huge wave of relief: Dad was still Dad. And he was telling him, It’s not safe here. Keep running.

  “Will, you want to listen to the radio, man?”

  “I’m good for now, Nando.”

  “You hungry? I got water and trail mix in the console.”

  “That’d be great.”

  Nando handed back a bag of trail mix and a cold bottle of water. The trail mix had berries and flecks of yogurt mixed in. Will scarfed it down and chased it with the water. Just then, brake lights lit up ahead of them and traffic began to slow.

  “Yo, Will, Highway Patrol’s setting up a checkpoint before the turn to Santa Barbara. In case that means anything to you.”

  Will leaned forward to look. Traffic had come to a stop. They were ten cars away from three CHP cruisers turned sideways, blocking both lanes headed south.

  “What should we do?” asked Will.

  “If you’re gonna make your flight, we can’t get caught up in a situation here. Between the seats, on the floor behind you, see a black strap?”

  “I see it.”

  “Pull on it. Yank it up. Hard.”

  Will undid his seat belt and grabbed the strap. On his second pull, the floor lifted, revealing a storage well big enough for two suitcases. Or a medium-sized person.

  “Hop in,” said Nando.

  “What?”

  Nando turned and looked at him calmly. “If I’m crazy and the cops aren’t looking for you, then stay in your seat. I’m cool either way.”

  Will took in Nando’s steady, untroubled gaze and thought, Can I trust you?

  “Yes,” said Nando.

  “What?”

  “Yes, you’ll fit. Should be room for your bag, too. What’s your cell number?”

  Will told him. He pressed his duffel down into the well on a patch of carpet covering the floor, then curled his body around it. A tight fit, but he just squeezed in.

  “Pull down the strap and hang on to it,” said Nando. “Mute your phone and put your earbuds in. Gonna hit’chu on the cell.”

  Will pulled the hatch closed and disappeared in darkness. He thumbed on his phone, filling the well with faint white light. Black molded metal boxed him in all around. He heard the van inch forward, tires crunching on pavement just below him. Will’s phone buzzed. He answered, then heard Nando’s voice in his ears.

  “Four cars to go. Chill now, we got this. Gonna put this on speaker.”

  He heard Nando set the phone on the console and switch on a Lakers game. Every twenty seconds, the van rolled forward a few more feet. Will slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and focused on what he could hear: a power window opening, traffic moving north toward Ojai. They rolled forward and stopped one more time. He heard footsteps, then an authoritative male voice.

  “Where you headed tonight?”

  “Got a pickup at LAX, Officer.”

  “Would you lower your rear windows, please?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Will heard Nando power the windows down and the scrape of the patrolman’s boots as he stepped toward the rear of the van.

  “The roads closed up ahead or anything?” asked Nando.

  “No,” said the patrolman.

  Will heard a second set of footsteps. Something rolled beneath the van. He pictured a wheeled security inspection device with angled mirrors. It stopped directly under the well where he was lying.

  “Are you carrying a spare tonight?”

  “Always, sir,” said Nando.

  “I’m going to need you to step out of the car, sir.”

  Will coiled tensely, expecting a hand to bang on the well and order him out. But the silence was shattered instead by a sound that set his heart pounding—a raucous, unmuffled V-8 roaring up behind them on the highway. It accelerated wildly as it raced at them. There was an eerie pause, followed by a massive shattering crash; then the engine growled away. On the far side of the checkpoint.

  “Whoa,” said Nando.

  The Highway Patrol officers yanked their mirror from under the van and ran, shouting into their radios. Moments later, their cruisers peeled out, sirens screaming as they gave chase to the south.

  “Hang tight,” said Nando into the phone. “We’re back on the move.” The van edged forward, slowly picking up speed. “You should’ve seen it. That was crazy.”

  “A hot rod doing about ninety that jumped the roadblock?”

  “Dude went Evil Knievel on ’em. Airborne, baby! Over three cruisers, sticks a landing on the roof of a fourth one, rides down the hood onto the highway, and takes off like a rocket, and the whole time I’m like, Are my eyes seeing what I’m seeing?”

  Will heard the turn indicator. The van eased to the right, and he knew they’d branched off onto the road that would take them northwest to Santa Barbara.

  “Come on out, Will. All clear.”

  Will pushed open the hatch, stretched out a cramp, and settled back in his seat. They were alone on the road now, moving through the dark.

  “So you seen that Prowler before?” asked Nando, glancing at him in the mirror.

  “Earlier today. In town.”

  Will heard a ding in his earpiece. He looked at the phone. Words appeared:

  GET AWAY. FAST. I’LL FIND YOU.

  Not a text. Just big block letters, by themselves. From Prowler Man?

  “Who is that guy?”

  “I have no idea,” said Will. “Think they’ll look for me at the airport?”

  “They’re gonna be chasing that Prowler for a while. Dude’s probably in downtown Oxnard already. Waiting at the drive-through for In-N-Out.”

  They both laughed a little. As the words on Will’s phone faded, it hit him: Prowler Man’s Australian. That was the accent I couldn’t place. Then another question: Do I want him to find me?

  “Turn off your phone, right now,” said Nando. “No more calls.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a GPS in there, my friend. You call or text while you’re hooked into the network, they’ll ping your IP address off the closest relay tower. Track you down to the inch.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Nobody’s supposed to know that. Heavy-duty Big Brother stuff. They can tag any conversation, trace texts, find you anytime they like. You can use the camera or calendar and stuff, long as you’re not on the network. But no calls.”

  Will turned off his phone, feeling a lot more vulnerable.

  “You tell anybody else where you’re going tonight?”

  “No,” said Will. “Think we’re okay?”

  “Think we got us a clean getaway,” said Nando.

  He kept them at the speed limit as they twisted and turned through the hills around Lake Casitas. Will fought a powerful urge to close his eyes, then remembered:

  #41: SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE SLEEPY. CATS TAKE NAPS SO THEY’RE ALWAYS READY FOR ANYTHING.

  Will woke thirty minutes later fully alert and surprisingly refreshed. They’d
merged onto the interstate, heading north along the coast near Santa Barbara. He saw foamy whitecaps to their left, moonlight glinting off the open sea, and distant offshore oil platforms lit up like Christmas trees.

  “When you get to the airport,” said Nando, “buy a plain black bag and switch your stuff into it. The one you’re carrying now’s got your school name on it. Lose the team sweatshirt, too. Pick up something touristy at the gift shop and grab a new lid. Yank the brim down low so it’s harder to see your face on security cameras.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll still need photo ID to get on the plane. Too late to trick out a fake, but as long as your name’s not in the TSA system yet, you’re good to go. If it is … that’s where the rubber meets the road.”

  They turned off the freeway, following signs to the airport. Nando took a no-frills Nokia cell phone and charger from the console and tossed them back to him.

  “Use that one to make any calls for now,” he said.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to take your phone—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not exactly mine, know what I’m saying? It’s got a camera and you can text using the number pad.”

  When they turned into the airport, Will took out his wallet.

  “Put that away,” said Nando. “Your money’s no good with me.”

  “But I got to pay you, Nando. What are you going to tell your boss?”

  “How’s he ever gonna know? I got you covered, esse. Gonna find me a fare heading back the other way and charge ’em double.”

  They laughed again. Nando slid to the curb in front of the Spanish-style terminal a few minutes before eight. The side door slid open.

  Will hesitated. “Why’d you help me, Nando?” he asked. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

  Nando turned to face him, his big brown eyes wide and solemn. “Glad you asked me that,” he said. “When I was out back, right when that chopper flew over? I heard this voice in my head. Like I went into some kind of trance and this voice mixed in with the sound of the blades. It told me the next person who walked through my door was going to be this really important person. Like in human history. That they needed my help and I better step up big-time. Or it could mean the end of the world.”

  Will gulped. “Really?”

  “No, I’m just messing with you, holmes!” said Nando. “Who you think you are, LeBron James or something? Ain’t you heard? He’s the Chosen One. I got’chu good, though, right?”

  “Yeah, you got me.”

  Nando’s smile vanished instantly. “I am totally serious, cabrón. I heard a voice.”

  “Okay, you’re freaking me out now.”

  “But I wouldn’t have listened to it if I didn’t like you, man. You got an honest face.” They shook hands and Nando gave him a business card: NANDO GUTIERREZ, OJAI TAXI COMPANY. “You call me when you get there. Lemme know you and your pops got hooked up, ’kay? Promise me now. I wanna hear from you.”

  “You will.”

  “Vaya con Dios, my friend,” said Nando.

  “And you tell Lucia and Angelita for me that they should be very proud of their dad,” said Will as he climbed out.

  “Thank you,” said Nando. “Wait, I don’t think—I never told you my daughters’ names, man.”

  “No?” said Will as he waved and walked away.

  “Okay, that’s a little strange, man. How’d you know that? Hey, how’d you know that?”

  Will just shrugged. He actually didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He shouldered his duffel and headed for the terminal.

  #28: LET PEOPLE UNDERESTIMATE YOU. THAT WAY THEY’LL NEVER KNOW FOR SURE WHAT YOU’RE CAPABLE OF.

  Two minutes after Will went inside and Nando drove away, a black sedan pulled up to the curb.

  DAVE

  As Dr. Robbins had promised, Will’s reservation to Denver was in the system at the ticket counter. She’d also booked a connecting flight to Chicago, on another airline, that left Denver about midnight. Will showed the agent his passport. She handed over his boarding passes without any questions.

  He stopped at a gift shop before security and bought a cheap black carry-on, a gray sweatshirt, and a blank baseball cap. In the men’s room, he changed into the sweatshirt, took everything out of his duffel, and packed it into the new bag. He had just enough room left to stuff the duffel inside before zipping the new bag shut. He pulled on the cap, checked himself in the mirror, and walked back out.

  The terminal was nearly deserted; he was booked on one of the last flights out. Will showed his pass and ID to a weary female TSA guard at the security entrance. She glanced at him, stamped his pass, and waved him between a set of ropes that led around a corner. Will had only been on a plane twice and not since before 9/11, when he was a little kid. Whenever his family moved, they always traveled by car.

  A stack of plastic trays waited beside a long stainless-steel table that fed a conveyor belt through the X-ray machine. The businessman ahead of him slipped off his loafers, watch, and belt, dumped them in a tray, and laid his coat on top. He set his carry-on, cell phone, and laptop in a second tray and nudged them onto the conveyor. The tag on his carry-on read JONATHAN LEVIN.

  Will stepped to the table and copied the man’s moves. Levin waited behind a white line in front of a metal detector. He handed his pass to the TSA guard manning that post, a scrawny redneck straight out of a country-western song, with squinty eyes and tattooed ropy forearms. He looked from the pass to the man a few times, taking his job way too seriously, then handed back the pass and waved Levin through.

  Will looked behind him. Two men in black caps and jackets were walking toward security, looking around. They hadn’t spotted him yet.

  Will tugged down his cap and stepped to the white line.

  Maybe it’s a random check and they don’t know I’m here. Maybe they can’t follow me once I get through security.

  As his trays entered the X-ray machine, he remembered he’d left his Swiss Army knife and the metallic bird in his bag. Both would start a conversation he couldn’t afford to have. He looked at the young female attendant watching the X-ray monitor.

  Trust your training.

  When Will was little, younger than five, his parents discovered that he had an unusual and startling ability—he could “push pictures” at people from his mind straight into theirs. His mom first realized it when images began popping into her mind—a toy, a drink, a cookie. Ultimately, she realized Will was trying to tell her what he wanted.

  Since then, his parents had worked with him to develop the skill, as a game at first, then more seriously. They had also taught him never to use his power on anyone, because it was ethically wrong and because it violated Rule #3: DON’T DRAW ATTENTION TO YOURSELF.

  Unless he was in extreme danger. Like right now.

  Will felt like his heart was going to beat right out of his chest as he stared hard at the girl behind the monitor. He’d never tried to push an image into anyone’s head other than his parents’. The girl stopped the belt with Will’s bags in the heart of the machine and leaned in for a closer look.

  A toothbrush. An alarm clock.

  Will concentrated, silent and trembling, and pushed those pictures at her. He felt them land. Toothbrush and alarm clock replaced knife and bird.

  A moment later, the attendant leaned back and advanced the belt. Will’s trays appeared at the far end. Relieved, he turned and came face to face with the redneck TSA guard, who was eyeing him coldly. He asked for Will’s pass. Will gave it to him. The man examined it, then looked at him sharply. The hairs on Will’s neck bristled.

  The guard walked to the other side of the detector and waved Will forward. He stepped through without setting off any alarms. The guard pointed him to the right, toward an area screened and divided by portable partitions.

  “Wait over there,” said the guard.

  Will had just been kicked up to another level of scrutiny. Between the time that he had checked in and now, the p
eople chasing him must have gotten his name onto a watch list. The guard held Will’s boarding pass as if it were a live grenade and walked into the maze of partitions. He showed it to a heavyset African American woman in a blue blazer. She glanced briefly at Will, her sharp eyes veiled with practiced indifference, then nodded the redneck toward a nearby computer.

  He’s about to confirm that my name is on a watch list.

  Will looked back and saw the men in black caps outside security. Looking at passengers. He turned away. The guard leaned over the computer, his face turned ghostly white by the flickering screen.

  Will focused his eyes on a single spot in the middle of the guard’s scraggly unibrow. Will’s pulse slowed. He “saw” his target. Felt a wave of heat shoot up his spine, flow around his throat, and rush up to create the image he wanted to push:

  A picture of the computer screen with Will West erased.

  It landed. The guard scrunched his eyes and blinked a few times. Will pushed another image at him, adding a name where his had been: Jonathan Levin.

  The guard leaned in, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Then, for the first time ever, Will tried to push words: That’s right. The guy who just cleared the checkpoint.

  The redneck’s head jerked above the partitions, his neck swiveling like a prairie dog sentry. His eyes shot past Will to the businessman, dragging his carry-on toward the gates. The guard spoke to his supervisor. She lifted a walkie-talkie and issued orders. The redneck and other guards started after the businessman. Will held out his hand. The redneck gave back Will’s boarding pass as he hurried past. Behind Will, police officers stepped in to close off the line to the metal detector.

  Will put on his shoes and slipped his laptop into the bag. He glanced back. The Black Caps were gone. Maybe they hadn’t even seen him. Will picked up his bag and walked away. Twenty steps later, he passed the petrified businessman being manhandled back to the checkpoint by the TSA posse, the side-burned redneck leading the way.

  Will rounded a corner. Exhaustion buckled his knees. His vision faded to spots and dots. The room spun like he was about to black out. He stumbled into the men’s room, dropped his bag, and grabbed a sink, holding on with both hands. He splashed water on his face and neck, which were hot to the touch.