by Mark Frost
“He won’t need a camera,” said Will. “Any more than I needed a horse.”
“Correct,” said Ajay, a smile dawning.
Tika knocked on the door, then stuck her head in and said to Brooke, “Car’s here for you, Miss Springer. Your parents are downstairs.”
Brooke explained that her parents had flown in from Washington. They’d decided it was best for her to spend a few days at home in Virginia before returning to class. She collected her bag, then gave everyone a hug. Will walked her out the door and into the corridor. Brooke dropped her bag, grabbed Will, and kissed him.
“Call me,” she said breathlessly. “Text me or email me or—”
“Okay,” he said between kisses.
“Don’t let an hour go by without letting me know what’s going on, what you know, and how you are.” Then with a sweet whispered goodbye and a heady rush of freshly washed hair, she was gone.
Will walked back inside and closed the door. The rest of them stared at the grin on his face, then pretended to find something else to look at. Elise, who knew exactly what he was thinking, turned away and crossed her arms.
“Dudes, we need a name for … whatever we are,” said Nick, climbing back into his wheelchair. “The Resistance or … wait for it”—Nick lowered his voice dramatically—“the Awesome Resistance.”
“Thanks for playing, Nick,” said Elise.
“The Alliance,” said Ajay.
“The Alliance,” said Elise, trying it out.
“What do you think, Will?” asked Nick.
“I’m sorry, what?” asked Will, looking up as if just realizing they were there.
“Never mind.” Elise scowled.
Will yawned. “I need to sleep now,” he said.
Nick gave him a fist bump, and Elise held his hand for a thoughtful moment; then Will headed for his room. Ajay followed him to his door.
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you,” said Ajay. “I found your iPhone where you said it would be in Lyle’s office. The police were driving up as I came out. It’s under your mattress. As a precaution, I removed its GPS transmitter.”
“Great job, Ajay,” said Will. “You’re the man.”
“No,” said Ajay. “I believe it’s safe to say that would be you, my friend. And I remain, sir, entirely at your service.”
Will smiled, took the dark glasses out of his pocket, and handed them to Ajay. “When you get a chance, take a look at these. We’re all going to need a pair.”
DECISION
Will found his iPhone where Ajay had stashed it, under the mattress. It felt good to feel its familiar contours in his hands again, but also sobering and sad, this artifact from his former life. Will sat on the edge of his bed. He looked at his parents’ photograph in its cracked frame. He picked up from the table Dad’s tattered book of rules and opened to the first page:
The Importance of an Orderly Mind.
Sticking with the rules had kept him alive this far. Had he been a little lucky? No doubt. And he knew enough to know he couldn’t count on that from here on out.
#7: DON’T CONFUSE GOOD LUCK WITH A GOOD PLAN.
He flipped the book to the final page, and the last rule Dad had written: OPEN ALL DOORS, AND AWAKEN.
The biggest question Will had been unable to answer: How did his dad know about the Prophecy? Because it was clear that his parents had known, or they wouldn’t have spent his whole life watching so closely for signs of his Awakening, then training and preparing him the way they did. But why that meant they had to keep him hidden while living like fugitives was another mystery.
He had to face the possibility that he’d never be able to ask Dad about it. He might never see either of them again. Who was going to take care of him now if they had been on that plane, or even if they hadn’t been? In the clear, cold, practical part of his mind, he knew that he’d have to do it, for the most part, by himself now.
Didn’t everybody, sooner or later, once you stared down the barrel of whatever form the truth is hiding in? We’re born; we die. In between you make the best of what’s handed to you, and you love the people closest to you.
What else is there?
At least he had friends now. But who could he turn to for answers to these big questions, the ones his parents had always guided him through before? Dave had been that guy, but he might be gone now, too. Could anybody, even a kick-ass Special Forces Wayfarer, come back from the Never-Was?
Will took out the dice from his pocket and looked at them. Black, with white dots. He wanted to believe these were the same unearthly devices Dave had shown him, but they looked and felt like regular dice. A little heavier and denser, maybe.
Without his realizing he’d moved, Will’s head eased down to the pillow. His orderly mind winked off as quickly as if he’d tugged a string to turn off a light.
Moments or hours later, Will heard a soft bing. He opened his eyes and saw his tablet on the desk, the screen turned toward him. The Center’s screen saver crest was bouncing gently from one side to the other.
He had no sense of how long he’d been out, but it was dark outside. Will glanced at his phone, still cupped in his hand: almost seven in the evening. Sunday. Still Sunday. The tablet sounded that gentle tone again. Will rubbed his eyes, walked over, sat at his desk, and touched the screen.
His syn-app appeared in his “room” and waved to him, smiling. “You’re not alone, Will,” said his syn-app. “And you never will be. Not while I’m around.”
“Thanks,” said Will dryly. “You’re a real pal.”
“You’ve been gone quite a while.”
“What, I’m supposed to keep you informed of my whereabouts now?”
“Not at all,” said the syn-app. “I was just worried about you.”
Will looked at his little double closely. “You sound like you mean it,” he said.
“I do.”
“Why should I believe you?” asked Will.
“If you can’t trust yourself, Will,” said his syn-app with a smile, “who can you trust? Would you like to see the photograph I found for you?”
“I’m sorry, which photograph?” asked Will sleepily.
“Of the helicopter.”
The screen filled with the hazy washed-out colors of ancient Kodachrome. A dynamic captured moment: An airfield, full of movement, a couple of helicopters lifting off and another in the air, closer to the camera, tilting in for a landing. A tropical jungle in the background framed the asphalt landing strip. An explosion bloomed above the palm trees.
A credit line along the bottom margin of the photo read The Battle for Pleiku, Vietnam/New York Times, September 14, 1969.
In the foreground, a soldier ran toward the landing chopper, his back to the camera. A tall man with big, broad shoulders, wearing fatigues and a worn leather flight jacket. Three round patches were sewn onto the back.
The first had a red kangaroo with the words SPECIAL FORCES below it. Beside that was the helmeted head of a knight and the words LONG-RANGE RECONNAISSANCE.
In the third patch were the silhouette of a helicopter and the words ANZAC/VIETNAM. Below that were the same call letters that Will had seen on Dave’s flight jacket: ATD39Z.
The man’s right arm was raised high in the air. It looked like he was hailing or signaling urgently to the pilot of the chopper just above him.
Holding up all five fingers.
That’s five.
In the caves, Dave never had a chance to say that before the wendigo took him. Was he saying it here, after the fact? Will’s heart leaped at the idea.
His eyes shot to the two dice sitting on his desk. The dots were glowing. As Will watched, the dice lifted off the surface and spun slowly … until a three and a two were facing him.
“That’s five,” whispered Will. “And it’s good to be alive.”
For the first time since leaving home, he believed it.
Will looked back at the photo. “In case I don’t see you again,” he said, “thanks for
everything, mate.”
Will’s syn-app asked, “Did you know this person in the photo, Will?”
“I sure did.”
“Would you like me to find out anything else about him for you?”
Will thought about it. “Yes,” he said. “See if you can find a woman named Nancy Hughes. She’s from Santa Monica. If she’s still alive, she’d be in her early sixties. All I know is that she served as an ensign in the Navy Nurse Corps during Vietnam in 1969.”
“I’ll get right on it,” said his syn-app.
Will caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at his book of rules, lying open on the bed. Had he imagined it or had a page just turned by itself? Will walked over and his eye went to the middle of the page:
#25: WHAT YOU’RE TOLD TO BELIEVE ISN’T IMPORTANT: IT’S WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO BELIEVE. IT’S NOT THE INK AND PAPER THAT MATTER, BUT THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE PEN.
And here’s what I choose to believe, thought Will. The one answer I couldn’t tell my roommates about: Dave said the Never-Was wanted me dead because I’m an Initiate. And they somehow realized it even before the Hierarchy did.
“I’m an Initiate now,” Will whispered. “Deal with it.”
If that’s why the Caps are afraid of me, I’m going to give them damn good reason to be. If the shag-nasties from the Never-Was think they can bust in here and take our planet from us, they’re going to have to go through me. I’m going to stop them, for my parents, Dave, and my friends. And if anyone else feels like helping me, like Coach Jericho, well, who knows, maybe I’m not even the only Initiate around here.
A soft bell sounded from his tablet. His syn-app appeared inside the photo on the screen, standing next to the still figure of Dave.
“An email just arrived from Nando,” the double said. “It’s a video file.”
“Open it, please,” said Will.
The photo dissolved into a video file. A moment later he saw Nando, speaking into his cell phone camera in an intense whisper. “Wills, I found something you gotta see.”
Nando moved the camera to an object sitting on a table: the black doctor’s bag he’d retrieved from Will’s house in Ojai. He moved in on the pair of worn initials embossed in gold below the handle: H. G.
“The bag was empty but I found something in the lining. Take a look.”
Nando opened the bag and moved the camera inside to a small label, sewn into the interior fabric of the bag. The label read THIS BAG BELONGS TO.
A name was on the blank line, block-printed in old, faded ink: DR. HUGH GREENWOOD.
Will froze the image and stared at it, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. The black phone on the desk rang, jolting him. He picked up on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Will, the headmaster would like to see you,” said an operator. “In his office, at Stone House.”
* * *
Rourke shook Will’s hand and asked him to take a seat on one of the heavy leather sofas in his inner office. Coach Jericho, already there when Will arrived, sat across from him. Rourke stayed on his feet in front of the roaring fireplace and talked him through it, calm and clear.
The ten captured members of the Knights of Charlemagne had all been expelled and were being held by state police on charges of kidnapping, accessory to and conspiracy to commit kidnapping, and attempted murder. The same fate awaited any other Knights they subsequently found, like Todd Hodak. Rourke said he had already called for a special assembly of the entire school to explain all this and to halt the spread of the rumors that would inevitably follow.
“Will, it seems clear to me,” said Rourke, “that in your haste to respond to these outrages, you gave no thought to the consequences of your actions. Most of which were shockingly reckless.”
Will glanced at Jericho, who gave nothing away. Will’s eyes went to the portrait on the wall of the school’s founder and first headmaster, Thomas Greenwood, staring down at him, solemn, stern, and wise.
Rourke sat on the edge of the table in front of Will. “They were also selfless, valiant, and almost unimaginably brave,” he said. “You’ve suffered a loss that by any civilized measure is impossible to calculate. How you respond now, and in the months to come, may set the course for the rest of your life.” Rourke gestured at the portrait on the wall. “Dr. Greenwood always used to say that it’s not the ink and paper that matter, but the hand that holds the pen.”
Will’s eyes opened wide. Rule #25. Word for word.
Rourke lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Will, I checked on that officer who questioned you at the airport in Madison. The FAA has no record of ‘Agent O’Brian.’ Tell me, had you ever see that man before?”
“He’s one of the men who chased me in California,” said Will.
“I thought so,” said Rourke, and glanced at Jericho. “Until we know the exact nature of what’s going on, I want you to observe a strict curfew: in your quarters by nine, without exception, every night. I’m putting Coach Jericho in charge of your security. You’ll be safe here. I make you this promise: No harm will come to you.”
Rourke’s eyes held him with such kindness, Will had to look away.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Rourke put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “There are things in this world more dreadful than you know. Things a young man your age should never have to face—certainly not alone. But we have two families in life. The one we’re born with that shares our blood. Another we meet along the way that’s willing to give its blood for us.”
Will looked up at both of them.
“You have found those people here,” said Rourke.
Coach Jericho held out a small leather pouch. Will took it from him and opened it. A small figure of a falcon, carved from dark rock, fell into his hand.
“You let me know if you have any more dreams,” said Jericho.
Will met his eye and nodded his thanks.
Rourke stood. “Will, do you have any questions for me?”
Will stood as well, clasping the falcon figurine tight in his hand. He looked at the portraits of the previous headmasters on the walls, Thomas and Franklin Greenwood, and thought back to his father’s medical bag.
“Do you know a man named Hugh Greenwood?” he asked.
Rourke and Jericho glanced at each other before Rourke answered. “Hugh was Franklin’s son.” Rourke nodded to his portrait. “Our second headmaster.”
“So he was Thomas Greenwood’s grandson,” said Will.
“That’s right. He used to teach here,” said Rourke. “Before I came on board. What was his subject, Coach?”
“Science. Biology, I think,” said Jericho.
Will tried to keep what he was thinking from his eyes. “Where is he now?”
“He and his wife left the school,” said Coach Jericho. “Resigned about sixteen years ago. I had just started here then, but I knew them both.”
“Was he a doctor?” asked Will.
“Yes,” said Jericho.
“Why do you ask, Will?”
“His name came up in a conversation,” said Will. “I was just curious. Would you mind if I had another look at the Infinity Room, sir?”
“Of course,” said Rourke. “May I ask you why?”
“Because I was afraid before. And I’d like to see how I feel about it now.”
Headmaster Rourke walked Will to the door leading to the long strange hallway and opened it for him. “Shall we wait here for you?” asked Rourke.
“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Will.
“I don’t mind at all,” he said. “It’s a beautiful night. Believe it or not, after that storm, they say we’re about to have Indian summer.”
Will walked out along the narrow suspended corridor, lit by silver moonlight reflecting off the new-fallen snow. He looked straight down through the clear panels to the ground far below his feet and out the windows lining either side. The whole room felt different in the dark, when you couldn’t see as much—far d
ifferent.
And so, as he’d hoped he would discover, was he. His heart beat a little faster as he moved along, and maybe he took in a few extra breaths. But he wasn’t afraid.
He reached the far end of the corridor and stepped into the peculiar glass observatory bubble, where the night sky opened up around him. The lights of the campus off to his left cast a warm, reassuring glow—evidence of civilized life, solid grounded lives, safe and secure. Stars scattered, an immensity, an almost indulgent surplus of them, overhead.
No, Will wasn’t afraid. Even with the hardest truth he’d had to face in front of him. He didn’t feel afraid of that, either. Because he knew now, after coming this far, that he would find a way to reckon with it.
Something in his pocket buzzed. Oh my God, did I leave it there? Really, Will? The iPhone had been in his front pocket the entire time he was in Rourke’s office. What a knucklehead.
He flicked it on, saw he’d received a text. It came up on-screen, all in caps, and time stood still:
THEY HAVE ME, WILL. I DON’T KNOW WHERE. ONLY YOU CAN FIND ME. 51. 51. 51.
Through a heart-pounding haze, Will fumbled through the rules in his mind, until he remembered #51: THE ONLY THING YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO LOSE IS HOPE.
Will’s father was Dr. Hugh Greenwood. And he was still alive.
TO BE CONTINUED IN
THE PALADIN PROPHECY BOOK 2: ALLIANCE
#4: IF YOU THINK YOU’RE DONE,
YOU’VE JUST BEGUN.
Ajay laid the glossy black-and-white photograph on the table.
“There’s a lot more detail in the original,” he said.
It was the same photograph from 1937 that they’d seen online: the Knights of Charlemagne hosting a gala dinner for Henry Wallace, the country’s soon-to-be vice president. Will’s eye immediately went to one of the twelve young men at the table—a student, one of the Knights. The one, when he’d first seen the photo, whom he’d thought he recognized but couldn’t place. He could now.
It was the Bald Man, Mr. Hobbes.
He didn’t know how this was possible—the picture was taken over seventy years ago—but then something even stranger happened.
