The Paladin Prophecy

by Mark Frost

  They turned onto an unpaved lane that climbed through thick woods, until they passed through a notch between converging ridges into an open clearing. Directly before them, connected to one of the ridgelines, an immense, broad granite pillar rose sixty feet in the air. It looked as if giants had stacked colossal children’s blocks.

  Spanning the top of the column was a jaw-dropping structure. Crafted from soaring lines of wood, stone, and steel, the building looked as if it had grown naturally out of the ageless geological formation below. The house seemed ultramodern and at the same time stark and primitive. Defying an identifiable style, its elements conspired to form a unique, inspiring, and powerful creation.

  “Stone House,” said Will.

  “No mystery about where it gets its name,” said McBride. “Connected to the earth. Reaching for the sky. Fair description of a headmaster’s job, isn’t it … and this is where he lives.”

  STONE HOUSE

  Will followed Dan McBride to the rock, past a steel staircase that curved around the column to the house above. They went under an arch carved in the rock and into a small foyer with an elevator. McBride pressed a button and the doors opened.

  “This goes straight up through the boulders?” asked Will.

  “Indeed. Our founder, Dr. Thomas Greenwood, was a great admirer of an architect named Frank Lloyd Wright. Have you heard that name before, Will?”

  “I think so.”

  McBride followed Will inside and the doors whispered shut. Dark wood and mirrored glass paneled the interior. A phrase was engraved above the door:

  NO STREAM RISES HIGHER THAN ITS SOURCE

  “That’s his saying. Wright opened a study center not far from here about a hundred years ago, called Taliesin. When Dr. Greenwood decided on this location, he consulted with Wright about Stone House. Nothing like it had ever been built in this country before. Like the Center itself.”

  Will caught the scent of damp concrete as they rose through the heart of the rock. He could feel the solidity of the granite around them—protective, somehow, rather than claustrophobic. The doors opened and they stepped into a reception area with concrete walls. A friendly white-haired woman waited to welcome them. Her name tag read MRS. GILCHREST. McBride called her Hildy.

  She led them into an adjoining great room. The dimensions of the space overpowered Will’s senses. Enormous rectangular windows rose up to an arched cathedral ceiling. Breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside—hills, valleys, a distant river—filled the windows on either side of the room. Clusters of solid, simple furniture hugged light hardwood floors. Vast tapestries hung on the walls, woven with what looked like Native American symbols and hieroglyphs. A stacked rock fireplace that climbed to the ceiling dominated the far wall, and a roaring fire blazed.

  Lillian Robbins walked forward to greet them. She wore a black skirt and crisp white blouse, black leggings, and knee-high black boots. Her hair was down on her shoulders, longer and fuller than Will would have guessed. She gripped Will’s shoulders with both hands and gave him a searching look.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  Another man entered from a door near the fireplace. He was tall and angular, with big hands and long, rangy arms. He wore brown corduroys, a battered shearling coat over a pale plaid shirt, and riding boots, weathered and muddied, like he’d just climbed off a horse.

  “This is our headmaster, Dr. Rourke,” said Robbins.

  He had an outdoorsman’s face, broad and tanned, and piercing blue eyes framed by a full head of tousled graying hair. Will guessed he was somewhere around fifty.

  “Mr. West. Stephen Rourke.” His voice was deep and agreeable.

  #16: ALWAYS LOOK PEOPLE IN THE EYE. GIVE THEM A HANDSHAKE THEY’LL REMEMBER.

  They shook hands: Stephen Rourke’s were rough and strong, like a rancher’s. Will saw nothing remotely “academic” about the headmaster. He looked like he could pick his teeth with a bowie knife and seemed as confident as a four-star general.

  Rourke smiled at him. “You’ve had an interesting journey,” he said.

  “That I have, sir.”

  Dan McBride headed for the door. “All the best now, Will. See you soon.”

  “Thanks for your help, Mr. McBride.”

  McBride gave Will a crisp two-finger salute as he left. Robbins invited Will to sit on a sofa near the fire. A tray of fresh-cut fruit and rolls sat on a nearby table. Rourke poured coffee and sat down across from him.

  “Did you finish the paperwork I gave you?” asked Robbins.

  Will fished the papers from his bag and handed them over. She paged through them, while Will tried not to watch. Rourke casually studied him.

  “In many cultures, including our local Oglala Lakota,” said Rourke, “to wish anyone an ‘interesting journey’ is considered something of a curse.”

  “I’d have to say my last twenty-four hours have been … interesting,” said Will.

  Robbins looked up from the papers and gave Rourke a nod: Everything in order.

  “What would you like to share with us about it, Will?” asked Rourke.

  TELL NO ONE.

  Will wanted to honor Dad’s warning, but he also felt he owed them an explanation. He was here and, for all he knew, still alive because of their timely help and interest in him. But the whole truth—Dave, doppelgänger parents, gremlins, and special sunglasses—wouldn’t buy him anything but a room at the Laughing Academy with no handle on his side of the door.

  #63: THE BEST WAY TO LIE IS TO INCLUDE PART OF THE TRUTH.

  “My parents wanted me to come here right away. As soon as I could. Today. Because they thought I was in danger.”

  Rourke and Robbins exchanged a look of concern. Rourke leaned forward. “What sort of danger, Will?” he asked.

  “They didn’t say exactly, sir. But there were people looking for me yesterday, in our neighborhood, that we’d never seen before.”

  “Describe them for me.”

  “I didn’t see them up close. Men in black cars, with unmarked license plates.”

  “Do you have any idea who they were or what they wanted?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was this before or after I saw you at your school?” asked Robbins.

  “I saw them once before, briefly, but mostly after.”

  “Did your parents contact the police?” asked Rourke.

  “They did,” said Will, as close to making a lie of the truth as he could manage. “After I left for the airport. That was when I called you last night, Dr. Robbins.”

  “So this was the reason for the urgency,” said Robbins. “Your parents felt these people represented some kind of threat to you.”

  Will nodded. His throat felt too tight to speak. He poured more coffee and hoped they wouldn’t ask too many more questions.

  “Have you spoken with your parents this morning?” asked Rourke.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “You need to let them know you’ve arrived safely, Will. And I’m sure you’d like to know they’re safe as well.”

  “I do. I would.”

  “Do you have any idea what this could be about?” asked Robbins. “Or what their interest in you might be?”

  “None at all,” said Will. Then he asked the question he’d had in mind all morning. “Do you?”

  Rourke and Robbins looked at each other. He seemed to ask for her opinion. She shook her head.

  “We don’t,” said Rourke. “What you’ve told us is more than troubling, Will. But we’re not without resources here. I’m more than willing to investigate the whole situation if you think that would be helpful.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m truly sorry you’ve been through this. Hardly the ideal circumstances for your arrival. A new student’s first day should be a much happier occasion.”

  “I’m happy to be here anyway,” said Will. />
  Right now—straight up—I’m happy to be anywhere.

  “We’re happy to have you,” said Rourke. “First things first: You can use the phone in my office to call home. Follow me.”

  Dr. Robbins stood as well, holding up Will’s paperwork. “I’m going to expedite this and get your admission finalized,” she said, heading to the office.

  Will followed Rourke into a smaller office next door. Heavy leather couches bracketed wagon-wheel tables in front of another blazing fireplace. A substantial oak desk sat on a riser in front of a picture window. A bronze sculpture of a Native American warrior slumped on the back of his pony filled one corner, the work of a famous artist whose name Will couldn’t recall. Portraits faced each other on the walls, paintings of two tall imposing men, in clothes and settings from different eras.

  “My predecessors,” said Rourke. “Thomas Greenwood, our founder and first headmaster, and Franklin Greenwood, his son.” Rourke pointed Will to a console phone on his desk. “Hit nine for an outside line, Will. I’ll give you some privacy.”

  Rourke stepped out. Will wondered if anyone would monitor his call. They would at least have a record of any number he dialed and could check it against the ones he’d put on his application.

  He weighed the risk of being caught in a lie against the chance that whoever answered at home might trace his call to the Center. He decided to place the call but spend no more than a minute on the line. He punched in his home number. The phone rang twice before a bland male voice he didn’t recognize answered. Will started the stopwatch on his iPhone.

  “West residence,” said the voice.

  “Jordan or Belinda West, please,” said Will, dropping his voice an octave.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Who am I speaking with?” asked Will. “I’m a colleague of Mr. West’s.”

  He didn’t sound like any colleague that Will recognized.

  “Can I tell them who’s on the line?” said the man.

  “Supervisor Mullins, Office of Family Services in Phoenix, Arizona,” said Will.

  The man muffled the receiver, repeated that to someone in the room, and a moment later another hand took the phone.

  “This is Belinda West.” Will felt the same sick ambivalence when he heard her voice. This was her, and yet it wasn’t.

  “Mom, don’t say anything, just listen,” said Will in his own voice. “I’m all right, don’t worry. I’m in Phoenix—”

  “They said Family Services. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m fine. They’re helping me. Are you all right? Is everything okay there?”

  “No, Will, we’re worried sick about you—”

  “Who just answered the phone?”

  She hesitated slightly. “Someone from your dad’s office is helping us—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Carl Stenson. So are you coming home? Should we fly over there?”

  “Let me talk to Dad.”

  “He’s sleeping right now.”

  That’s a lie. Will checked his iPhone: fifty-five seconds.

  “I’m going to Mexico,” said Will. “Don’t come after me. Don’t try to find me. I’ll call in a couple of days.”

  He hung up, then called the main switchboard for the science department at the University of California, Santa Barbara. A receptionist answered.

  “Hi, I work for the school newspaper,” said Will. “I’m trying to reach someone in your department. Carl Stenson. I think he works with Jordan West.” He pictured the receptionist scanning a list.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone here by that name.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about that?” asked Will.

  “Yes. Would you care to leave word for Mr. West? He’s not in”—Will started to hang up—“but the police were here earlier and I know they’ve spoken with him.”

  Will froze. “That’s what I’m calling about.”

  “You mean the break-in last night?”

  “That’s right,” said Will, going with it. “In Mr. West’s office?” He heard reluctance in her silence. “This can be off the record if you like.”

  “All of Mr. West’s work was taken,” she said, lowering her voice. “Files and two computers. They’re going through everything now to see what else is missing.”

  “Do they have any idea who did it?”

  “Not so far. If you—”

  Will hung up. Stealing Dad’s research, on the same night. It had to be the Black Caps. But why? Was that what this was all about? What could Dad have been working on that would justify all this?

  Will pulled out a business card and, using the cell phone Nando had given him, tapped in the number.

  He answered after the second ring: “This is Nando.”

  “Nando, this is Will, you drove me to the airport last night?”

  “Young fella, how you doin’? I was just thinking about you. You make it to Frisco okay?”

  “Yeah, just wanted to let you know.”

  “So how’s your pops feelin’?” Will heard a horn honk. Nando shouted something away from the phone in Spanish. “Sorry, bro, I’m working here.”

  “He’s better, thanks. But I’m probably gonna be here for a while and we’ve got kind of an odd situation. Could you do me a small favor?”

  “Absolutimento, whassup?”

  “My dad’s worried somebody might try to break into our house,” said Will.

  “Your house here in Ojai?”

  “Yeah. I forgot to lock up and the doctor says he shouldn’t have any stress right now. Could you swing by and check so I can tell Dad everything’s okay?”

  “I’m all over it. What’s the address, bro?”

  Will told him.

  “See you’re using that phone I gave you,” said Nando. “Untraceable is the way to go, bro. Gonna check this out and get back to you pronto.”

  Will turned and saw Lillian Robbins in the doorway. He worried she’d overheard, but as she moved forward, he realized she was focused on something else.

  “Got to go,” said Will. “Thanks, Mom. Check in with you later.” He pocketed the phone as Robbins reached him.

  “I have to ask you about this before I bring it up with Mr. Rourke,” she said, concerned. “What you told me last night about the test in September. That you deliberately tried to fail. Is that really true, Will?”

  “I didn’t try to fail, exactly. I just didn’t try to succeed.”

  “But your score topped results across the board. How could that have happened if you weren’t trying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will, the bigger question it raises is, Why would you do a thing like that?”

  She looked at him searchingly with genuine concern, so he told her the truth. “A rule my parents had.”

  “What sort of rule?”

  The words felt painful to say. He had never really questioned before why Dad put Rule #3 on his list. But now all bets were off.

  “Don’t draw attention to myself,” said Will.

  Robbins spoke carefully. “Why would your parents want people to think that you’re not as smart—exceptionally smart—as you actually are?”

  “You’re a psychologist, right? That’s the kind of doctor you are.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then you tell me,” he said. “Because I don’t know.”

  “They explicitly told you to hold yourself back, with no explanations?” she asked.

  “All they ever said was, ‘We have our reasons.’ End of discussion.”

  Dr. Robbins thought for a moment. “And then, after scoring off the charts, you discover you’re being followed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe they had some genuine cause for concern,” she said.

  “Maybe.” Will flashed on his plane ride from hell and thought, You don’t know the half of it.

  “I can promise you you’re safe here,” said Robbins. “We have a lot of high-profile families and
we take security very seriously.”

  Before Will could respond, Stephen Rourke walked in and moved toward his desk, giving no indication that he noticed any tension between them.

  “Did you reach your parents?” asked Rourke.

  “I did, thanks,” said Will. “They’re okay and they were real glad to hear I got here safely.”

  “That’s every parent’s job, Will: to worry about their kids. That never changes.”

  Rourke referred to a notebook on his desk, jotted something on a pad, and then handed the note to Robbins. She read it without reaction as Rourke put a hand on Will’s shoulder and guided him to a door at the far end of his office.

  “Now, Will, I need you to hear an abridged version of the Headmaster’s Address—the one I use at the start of every year to welcome our new students.”

  Through the door they entered a long, narrow corridor sided with windows from floor to ceiling on either wall. Gusts of cold wind whistled through open windows along the top. The room extended straight out the back of Stone House, pointing west toward the campus, which he could see in the distance over the ridgeline.

  “This was the final addition Thomas Greenwood made to Stone House,” said Rourke. “An observation deck that connects the house back to the Center. He wanted it to give a specific sensation to anyone who came here. That they’d feel suspended not just in space, but also in time. So he called this the Infinity Room.”

  The floor shuddered with every step. Will shivered when he realized they were passing over thick windows embedded in the planks. He could see straight to the ground a hundred feet down; cars parked below looked like toys. There had to be struts connecting it to the rest of the building, but he couldn’t see any. The Infinity Room felt like it floated in midair. His balance wobbled like a top.

  “Dr. Greenwood had the unorthodox idea that a visit here would serve as a crucial reminder to students,” said Rourke, “to remain alert at all times to the reality of the present. Because all we have is right now.”

  Dad couldn’t have put it better himself. In fact, he did put it that way, exactly. Rule #6.