by Mark Frost
Will locked his bedroom door and lifted the sweatshirt off his tablet. The mailbox icon was blinking and had a question below it: WOULD YOU LIKE TO ADD “NANDO” TO YOUR OUTSIDE MAILING LIST?
“Yes. Open email.”
YOU MAY NOW SEND AND RECEIVE MAIL FROM THIS ADDRESS.
The email from Nando opened. “FYI. AS PROMISED.” Three photographs downloaded on-screen, one after the other. Will studied each as they came up. The first was taken from Nando’s car as he drove past: three black cars parked in front of the house. The second showed three men in black caps loading boxes into the trunk of the first car. The third showed Belinda talking to one of them in front of the house. The man had taken his hat off. He was bald.
On instinct, Will tried something else. “Zoom in,” he said.
His computer zoomed in on the photo until he could see Belinda more clearly. She hadn’t changed physically, but she looked less like his mom in this shot. Like an actor in costume and makeup seen off camera; she wasn’t playing Mom.
A tone sounded from the computer. On-screen, a new message from Nando opened. It was a text, sent from his phone: caps on the move … I’m all over it …
There was another knock at his door. “Close all files,” said Will.
The tablet instantly returned to its greeting screen, the animated school crest—angel, horse, knight—floating over shimmering black. The same message he’d seen earlier appeared: WOULD YOU LIKE TO BEGIN THE TUTORIAL NOW?
“Not right now,” said Will.
AS YOU WISH, WILL. The screen went blank again.
Will had never owned a pet, but he had the oddest feeling about this new computer. It seemed—he didn’t know how else to express this—happy to follow his commands. Like it was a dog.
Will moved to the door. Little Ajay stood outside wearing his school blazer, poised and formal.
“Will, we’ve decided you’re joining us for dinner,” he said in his deep voice. “And I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter.”
THE DEAD KID
In addition to the soda fountain and the student union food court, there were four other restaurants on campus, including a formal dining room that required reservations and a coat and tie, for parental visits or faculty consultations, and a grillroom in the field house for team meals before or after games and practices. The cafeteria, by far the largest eatery, occupied most of the ground floor of a building near the student union and offered a perpetual buffet from 6:00 a.m. to midnight every day of the week. The fourth restaurant, where his roommates took Will for his first dinner, was the Rathskeller.
Down a flight of weather-beaten stone stairs, the restaurant was situated in the basement of Royster Hall, the oldest building on campus. A wooden sign, carved in a Gothic font from the Pinocchio era, swung above the door: THE RATHSKELLER ESTABLISHED 1915.
Inside was a surprisingly warm and intimate cellar space, divided by brick arches, with fireplaces at either end. The room was filled with long tables and dark hardwood benches. There was sawdust on the floor and brass lanterns with fake flickering candles on the tables. The ends of enormous barrels studded the walls, stamped with insignias of old Milwaukee breweries. Will’s roommates explained that the Rathskeller had been the faculty lounge back when the Center first opened, a gastronomic temple dedicated to Wisconsin’s dominant Germanic cuisine.
The only menus were large rectangular blackboards fastened to the walls above the fireplaces. Written in chalk were strange words like Kielbasa, Sauerbraten, Spätzle mit Schweinshaxe, Weisswurst, Bratkartoffeln, Hasenpfeffer, Spargelzeit.
The others ordered for Will, who kept his mouth shut and watched his new roommates interact. Clever and nimble, Ajay directed the conversation and kept the tone light. Nick tossed jokes around like water balloons, sabotaging any topic that turned too serious. Elise hung back but joined Nick in firing barbed shots at the others, playfully, and at anyone outside their group who came up in conversation, not so playfully. Both specialized in keeping others off balance. Will couldn’t tell if that was their way to conceal vulnerability, or if they were a bit mean-spirited.
All of which left Brooke stuck as the grown-up, herding the others back onto polite social ground when they crossed the line. Which they did constantly, if for no other reason than to provoke Brooke into correcting them.
Their food arrived, served by two cheerful, plump ladies in Bavarian-themed uniforms, and Will got a bigger surprise. It was a fantastic meal. The platters were piled high with five kinds of sausage, smothered in sauerkraut. There was a gigantic bowl of creamy potato salad that perfectly complemented the meat, and sharp, crisp pickle spears and jars of different mustards that redefined the word mustard; one was like velvet, another tart and spiked with spices, a third sweet as honey but hot enough to fire a blast wave through his sinuses. To wash it all down were pitchers of cold, fizzy apple cider, which the friends poured into big frosted mugs.
Ajay mentioned Will’s dismay at the rule against texting, and everyone expressed how difficult they’d found it at first to adapt. Well, almost everyone.
“Never got into texting,” said Nick.
“How could you?” said Elise. “It requires knowing how to spell.”
“Go ahead, laugh, nerdlings,” said Nick. “There’s not even going to be texting in the near future. Which I know ’cause I happen to be sitting on the sickest, most awesome idea for a social network site ever.”
“Pray tell,” said Ajay.
Nick lowered his voice and drew them in. “I take all the best parts of YouTube, Twitter, and Facebook, and combine them into a whole new service called … YouTwit-face.”
They laughed so hard Ajay snorted cider out his nose, which set off an even bigger laugh.
“May I propose a round of toasts,” said Ajay, lifting his glass. “To our new companion: May the winds of fortune guide you, Will. May you sail a gentle sea. And may it always be the other guy who says, ‘This drink’s on me.’ ”
They laughed, then Brooke held up her glass and said, “Will, may you have all the happiness and luck that life can hold. And at the end of all your rainbows, may you find a pot of gold.”
The others clapped. Nick stood up with his glass raised.
“Health and long life to you, young dude,” said Nick. “Stay happy and well fed … and may you be half an hour in heaven before the Devil knows you’re dead!”
They laughed again. It was Elise’s turn, but she didn’t stand or raise her mug or even look at Will. She rubbed her index finger around the edge of her glass until it sent an eerie, piercing note through the room. With the note hanging in the air, Elise shifted her eyes to meet Will’s, with an intensity every bit as penetrating as the note. Her mesmerizing green eyes drilled into him.
“Never forget to remember,” said Elise, barely above a whisper, “the things that make you glad. And always remember to forget … the things that make you sad.”
Will turned away. She looked straight into me. I felt it. Nick isn’t exaggerating; she’s got some witchy way of seeing about her.
The happy mood at the table crashed.
“For goodness’ sake, woman,” said Ajay. “Do you have to turn every happy occasion into a werewolf movie? Warn him about the full moon while you’re at it.”
The others laughed, but Elise looked deadly serious. Trying to shake off a shadow, Will thought. Something she’d seen, felt, or remembered had disturbed her. Will let his intuition chase the idea, but he hit a wall. He couldn’t read Elise at all.
“Hello,” said Nick, miming answering a phone. “Suicide Prevention Hotline, can you please hold?”
Brooke shot a look at Nick: Don’t go there. Nick protested, then got her point, and smacked himself on the head. They all looked subdued. No one would meet Will’s eye.
“Okay, what’s this about?” asked Will.
“What’s what about?” asked Nick.
“Nick, you’re a terrible liar. Whatever you all just flashed on that killed the mo
od.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” said Brooke.
“Then why not tell it to me?”
“Because, well, obviously,” said Ajay, “we’d rather not talk about it, old boy.”
They all seemed to be waiting for Brooke to make the decision. A moment later she said matter-of-factly, “We had another roommate last year. And he died.”
Will let that sink in.
#10: DON’T JUST REACT TO A SITUATION THAT TAKES YOU BY SURPRISE. RESPOND.
Elise turned away, her face ashen. This is what had upset her.
“At school?” he asked.
“No,” said Brooke. “Over the summer. While he was away.”
“While we were all away,” said Nick.
“And before that he was living in my room,” asked Will, knowing the answer.
“Yes,” said Brooke. “And, as I said, it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“It didn’t have anything to do with any of us,” said Ajay.
“What happened to him?” asked Will.
“That’s the thing …,” said Nick.
“What’s the thing?” asked Will.
“Nobody knows,” said Elise. “Get the check, Nick. We’re outta here.”
Elise had a way of ending conversations.
* * *
They walked back to Greenwood Hall, considerably more subdued than they had been on the trip over. Once in their pod, they spent only moments wishing Will good night before scattering to their rooms. Will grabbed some water from the kitchen and lingered in the great room. On a bookshelf near the fireplace he spotted a Center yearbook: last year’s edition. He took it into his bedroom and closed and locked his door. Alone again, this time for the night.
In the dead kid’s room.
The room had sat empty until they’d known for sure that he wasn’t coming back. Did they change the furniture? Had the boy slept on this same mattress? Spoken on that black phone? Sat in this chair, worked and studied at this desk? Will nudged the desk, dislodging it to the right. The hardwood floor beneath the front legs was a darker color. This was probably the same desk the dead kid had used.
His name was Ronnie Murso. Will had gotten that much out of Ajay before they’d parted for the night. The five of them—Brooke, Ajay, Nick, Elise, and Ronnie—had spent freshman year in Greenwood Hall Pod 4-3. A momentous year, their first away from home, full of stress and upheaval. Will opened the yearbook to the freshman section. He found all their photographs, the usual smiling oblivious head shots. Except for Elise, who stared at the camera with a boldness suggesting she knew the photographer’s every secret.
Then he found Ronnie Murso. He had a long narrow face, a delicate jawline, and straight blond hair as white as straw. His thin-lipped smile looked taut and a little forced. He had intelligent hazel eyes, a hint of vulnerability around them. He looked sensitive, clearly shy. An emo-geek most likely, a bit on the scrawny side. Below each photo sat a small block of text. Self-profiles. Ronnie’s read:
Embrace paradox. Look for patterns.
Beethoven holds the key but doesn’t know it yet.
Hiding inside your Shangri-la you might find the Gates of Hell.
Strange. This was the second mention of Shangri-la since he’d left home. And, wait, Dad also used that same phrase in his last message: “the gates of hell.” To Ronnie’s point: How many mentions in a short period of time constituted a pattern?
#26: ONCE IS AN ANOMALY. TWICE IS A COINCIDENCE. THREE TIMES IS A PATTERN.
AND AS WE KNOW …
There is no such thing as coincidence.
The mattress buzzed, startling him. Nando’s cell phone. Will retrieved it, then stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
“They’re at Oxnard Airport, man,” said Nando when Will answered. “They drove straight down here from your house. Pulled right onto the runway. They’re loading up a private jet with the stuff from the house.”
“Where are you?” asked Will.
“Parked across the street, watching through the fence. It’s a twin-engine jet … looks like it seats seven or eight?”
“Can you see the tail numbers?”
A moment later Nando said, “N-four-niner-seven-T-F.”
“Who’s on board?” asked Will.
“The lady and that dude with the beard …”
Mom and Dad.
“And the bald dude just went inside with ’em. They’re closing up the stairs. Rest of the Caps are back in the cars. Driving away, like in formation.”
“Don’t let ’em see you,” said Will.
“They won’t, bro. Taxis are invisible, especially near airports. The plane’s moving now, ready for takeoff. You want me to stick with the Caps?”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Nando—”
“Get real, man. I can haul Mr. and Mrs. Richie Rich and their potty-mouthed kids to LAX any day. You kidding me? Any hack in the world would kill for a thrill like this.”
“I just don’t know how to thank you,” said Will.
“Give your pops a hug, man. We’re good—Hey, here come the Caps on the frontage road. Gotta jam. Later.”
Will called National Directory Assistance looking for private air charter companies that offered noncommercial flights out of Oxnard. On the third call, he got a hit on the tail numbers. The secretary who answered told him their company owned that plane: a Bombardier Challenger 600 twin-engine jet.
#34: ACT AS IF YOU’RE IN CHARGE, AND PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE YOU.
Will altered his voice to the flat institutional twang civil servants used when they wanted to let civilians know they meant business.
“This is Deputy Johnson, Ventura County sheriff,” said Will. “We have reason to believe persons of interest may be on that aircraft. Do you have a passenger list?”
“No, sir.” She sounded eager to cooperate.
“Was the aircraft engaged by Mr. or Mrs. Jordan West?” He heard papers shuffle.
“Yes. Mrs. West paid for it. With a credit card.”
His parents didn’t own credit cards. Everything he’d ever seen them buy they paid for with personal checks or cash.
“Was that the name on the credit card?” he asked.
“Yes. Jordan West.”
“And what is their destination, ma’am?”
“They’re flying to Phoenix. Scheduled to return tomorrow.”
Phoenix. So his misdirection had worked. With a little luck, they’d go hunting for him in Mexico, too.
“And what was the charge for this flight?”
“Round trip from here to Phoenix is twelve thousand seven hundred twenty dollars,” she said.
That put to rest any doubt his parents hadn’t paid for this. They sweated out bills every month. They simply didn’t have that kind of money. Will thanked the woman and said he’d call back with any further questions.
He went into the bedroom. His focus started to fade, the two most stressful days of his life dragging him down. His head ached dully along with half a dozen other body parts. Will climbed into bed. The mattress was firm but yielding, the pillow soft and cool.
Will looked at the photo of his parents on the bedside table, then picked up Dad’s rules and browsed through them. Some were in his handwriting, but most were in Dad’s, the way they’d collected them over the years. On the last page, Will noticed one he hadn’t seen before, in Dad’s handwriting, with no number attached. He must have put it there recently.
OPEN ALL DOORS, AND AWAKEN.
Why did that sound familiar? Will tried to track the connection but his eyes closed and he fell asleep with the book on his chest.
Climbing up through the walls of Greenwood Hall, the bug never varied its path or pace. Soon after Will fell asleep, a creature the size of a cockroach squeezed through a crack between the floor and baseboard of Will’s room. Flat and armored like a beetle, the creature was studded with coarse black hairs. An unusual number of eyes bulged from its head. The creature trudg
ed across the room, up a desk leg, and onto the surface to Will’s tablet. The bug’s forearms probed the sides until a port opened in the black seamless metal. The bug wriggled inside and disappeared.
Moments later, the computer turned on. Legs unfolded in back and slowly lifted the machine. The numinous black screen shimmered to life. Legs inching around in almost undetectable increments, the machine shifted until the screen faced the bed.
And it watched Will sleep.
There was no doubt this was the boy I’d seen in the dream. I recognized him instantly. Did he recognize me? I couldn’t tell. But I knew he had secrets, maybe even more than I did.
He would start asking questions soon. No telling how that would turn out. One thing I knew for sure: Questions could be even more dangerous than secrets.
STUDENT-CITIZENS
The black retro phone on Will’s desk rang with a musical but insistent trill. Will fumbled out of bed to the receiver.
“Hello?” he mumbled.
“Good morning, Mr. West. It’s seven a.m. on Thursday, November ninth. Welcome to your first full day at the Center.”
A female voice, pleasant, chatty, and cheerful. The squashed and hammered vowels of the upper Midwest.
“Thank you,” said Will. “Who is this?”
He tried to pull the phone toward the bed, but its heavy-duty cloth cord ran only a few feet from the wall and wouldn’t budge when he yanked on it.
“Dr. Robbins requested we give you a wake-up call today. And remind you, Mr. West, that you have an appointment with her at nine o’clock sharp—”
“I know, I know—”
“—at Nordby Hall. That’s the main administration building. Room two forty-one. Would’ja like directions or maybe a map?”
“No, thanks, I know where it is.”
