by Matthew Cody
“I think he’s a little of both. I don’t know how he got the way he is, but I’m willing to bet that it had something to do with the St. Alban’s fire.”
“You’re talking about that old newspaper clipping you found.”
“Yeah. Plunkett was one of the orphans that Noble saved that night, and the orphanage burned down the same night some kind of comet appeared in the sky.”
“A comet? Do you think that has something to do with all this?”
“Yeah, well, I just have this feeling. I have this sense that the two things are wound up with Plunkett in all of this. And I intend to find out.”
Mollie was quiet for a moment. Then, “Daniel? You said this was in your gram’s scrapbook?”
“Yeah?”
“So she was a survivor of this fire? Along with Jonathan Noble and Herman Plunkett?”
Daniel gave Mollie a hard stare. He knew what she was about to suggest, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not now. It was just too terrible.
“Daniel,” Mollie pressed on. “We can assume now that Plunkett was lying and that there have been Supers for years. For generations. What if it all goes back to the fire like you think? What if those kids, along with Johnny, were the first—the first generation of Supers? What if your gram … was a Super?”
If Mollie was right, then Plunkett had stolen his gram’s powers the same way he’d stolen Simon’s, Michael’s…. He’d stolen a lifetime of miracles.
“She never really talked about her life as a kid,” he answered. “If you’re right, then Plunkett didn’t just steal her powers, he stole her childhood. He deserves to die.” Daniel was silent for a moment. “This is all my fault.”
Mollie gave him a sideways look. “How so?”
“Plunkett was afraid of Eric. Plunkett couldn’t be sure of beating him in a fair fight, so he used me to get to him. And I bought every lie. Believed every story. It’s because of me that Eric walked right into that trap, far away from home, from help.
“And you know what the worst part is? I think a part of me was anxious to believe Plunkett’s lies. Looking back at everything Plunkett told me, there were all kinds of holes in his story, but I didn’t even question them. I think I was … I am jealous of Eric and of all the things he can do. Jealous of the way that you, that all of you, feel about him. It felt good to be the center of attention for once, to … to lead. So I cut my friend off from his team, turned you all against him, and then sent him out there to face the Shroud alone. It’s all my fault, Mollie.”
Mollie said nothing. For what seemed like an eternity, she just pedaled along, lost in her thoughts. She wouldn’t even look at Daniel. He knew that she must be even more disgusted with him than he was.
“You know,” she said, braking her bike to a complete stop, “you make me want to scream.”
“Um, huh?”
“Look at me, Daniel Corrigan, because I am only going to say this once—this is not your fault. This, all of this, is the fault of Herman Plunkett, or the Shroud, or whatever he wants to be called. He fooled you. He fooled all of us. For years he’s been fooling us.
“You say that you’re jealous of Eric—well, join the club. You don’t think Rohan wouldn’t rather pick up a car, or fly, instead of listening to bugs digging all day? You think I wouldn’t give anything to be strong enough to punch stupid Clay Cudgens in the face the next time he mouths off to me? We are all jealous of Eric. But we all love him, too, and I know the same goes for you. Tell me that your heart didn’t break when you thought he was the Shroud, and tell me that finding out that you were wrong doesn’t feel just a little good?”
Mollie put her hand on Daniel’s arm and looked him in the eyes.
“You’ve just been through a terrible experience, Daniel. Losing your grandmother … it’s something that I can’t imagine going through. It’s gotta be so bad to feel so …
so …”
“Powerless?”
Mollie smiled. “Yeah. But you’re not. You’re smart and you’re brave. You didn’t give up on Simon, and I know you won’t give up on Eric. He’s your friend and he needs you. We all need you.”
Mollie leaned in close to Daniel, so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek. Her face was only inches away from his.
“But if you don’t stop feeling sorry for yourself, I am going to punch you in the nose,” she said, and Daniel could see that she meant it.
“Hey, Daniel,” interrupted a voice behind them. “Did you see that shooting star?”
“Huh?” Daniel turned to see Louisa pedaling hard to catch up. Rose clung tightly behind her, and the rest of the gang followed them.
“Oh. Hi, Louisa. No, I didn’t see anything.”
“Why are we stopped?” asked Rohan. “Something wrong?”
“No,” answered Daniel, red-faced. “Just waiting for you to catch up.”
“Daniel,” continued Louisa, “you should have seen it! It was directly in front of us, a flash in the sky … there it is again!”
Daniel looked up to where Louisa pointed, and this time he did see something. It was like a streak of fire, but it was traveling low, far lower than a comet or shooting star should be. And it was coming toward them.
“Wow,” cooed Rose. “Pretty.”
“Everyone off the road!” shouted Daniel. “Find cover!” But it was too late. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Daniel found himself flying off his bike, blinded by a thick cloud of dirt and debris. Something had struck the ground very near them, and that something was laughing.
Daniel recognized the voice—a deep, hoarse whisper. He tried to call out to his friends, to warn them or to make sure that they were okay, but his mouth was full of sand and his ears were ringing from the impact. Tiny flashes of light dotted his vision and a sharp, biting pain was rising in his bad arm, which was twisted awkwardly underneath him.
Wiping the dust from his eyes, he looked up just in time to see a shadowy figure pounce on top of him. Strong fingers, like the grip of an iron vise, dug into his shoulders, and his head began to spin as he was lifted into the air. Daniel screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of coarse laughter. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the ground disappearing beneath him, littered with the bodies of his friends.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Cave
When he came to, the first thing Daniel was aware of was the pain. It was a familiar throbbing agony that originated in his left arm and washed over him in waves. The second thing was the cold. This being November, there was a chill to the evening air, but this cold bit like a deep winter freeze. Rough stone scraped against his face. The air smelled wet, like earth.
Daniel stretched his fingers out into the darkness. There were none of the faint shadows or telltale shapes that you might find in a dark room. This was a darkness that was total, absolute. Daniel brought his good arm up to his face and waved his fingers in front of his eyes to confirm his worst fear—he was blind.
“Do you know where you are?” asked the darkness.
Daniel froze and listened to the voice—raspy like crinkling sheaves of old paper—a voice he knew and feared.
“Plunkett?” Daniel asked.
“Yes, Mr. Corrigan?” The voice was close. He could be standing right over Daniel and Daniel wouldn’t even know. “I can’t see.”
“I know. But you haven’t answered my question—do you know where you are?”
“How can I know where I am if I can’t see?”
Daniel heard Plunkett—the real Plunkett this time, not the muffled whisper of the Shroud—give an exasperated sigh, but Daniel didn’t care. He was focusing all his might on keeping the panic out of his voice, even as the encompassing darkness threatened to swallow him whole. He was fighting the claustrophobia brought on by the blindness, and concentrated on keeping his breath even, steady.
“You have other senses,” said Plunkett. “And you have deduction, reasoning, as well. Now I repeat—do you kno
w where you are?”
Daniel forced himself to relax, and he stretched out both arms into the dark. Instantly, he regretted it as a burning pain raced up his bad arm. Plunkett’s attack had undone weeks of delicate healing that had gone on beneath the cast—the bone had snapped a second time. He winced, but he managed not to cry out.
“Ignore the pain. Fight through it,” said Plunkett.
He reached out again, this time with only his good arm, and felt the ground he was lying on. It was definitely stone—cold and rough. He could hear the slight echo of dripping water nearby.
“We’re in the quarry. Behind your secret stone door.”
“Very good. And do you have any thoughts as to what else might be behind my secret door?”
Daniel gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe. What was Plunkett up to with all these questions? Was he just playing more games—toying with his prey? At least this game was buying Daniel time. Every minute that he kept Plunkett talking was a minute Daniel stayed alive, and increased his chances of finding and freeing Eric. So he buried his anger and fear, and let his deductive mind get to work.
“I suppose that it’s something you want to keep hidden, something important to you….”
“Yes?”
“And before this was a quarry, it was the site of the St. Alban’s orphanage, wasn’t it? Before it burned to the ground. Before the night the comet appeared over Mount Noble….”
“Call it by its real name, boy. Mount Noble is a meaningless honorific. The ancient tribes who first settled in its shadow called it by a different name—Witch Fire Mountain! Noble had nothing to do with the secrets of this ancient place.” There was a sudden change in Plunkett’s tone, a defensiveness that hadn’t been there before. So Jonathan Noble was a sore spot for the old man.
“But otherwise, your deductions were splendid,” continued the darkness. “A top-notch bit of reasoning.”
Daniel’s vision exploded in a field of white, of shooting stars. It was more than a blindfold being ripped off his eyes—it was darkness itself peeling away from his eyelids. The pain was excruciating.
When his vision cleared, his now-tender eyes focused immediately on his adversary—Herman Plunkett, the Shroud. He was sitting across from Daniel in a very different chair from the overstuffed recliner in his library. This one was made of stone and earth, and it appeared to be dug out of the very cave wall. Plunkett was playing with a strand of darkness, the same cold darkness that had just been peeled from around Daniel’s eyes. It was thin, like a fine filament string, yet fluid—ebbing and flowing between Plunkett’s fingers. There were other strands of the stuff here and there about Plunkett’s body as well—the remains of Plunkett’s villainous Shroud disguise.
Plunkett merely watched as Daniel examined the rest of his surroundings. As he’d suspected, he was in a limestone cave. Daniel could feel the cool wind of a draft upon his face. A kerosene lantern provided feeble light, enough to see by at least. But the shadows swallowed up everything beyond this small patch of light, so there was no telling how deep the cave went or how tall its ceiling was. Daniel could see well enough, however, to make out Eric’s body lying a few feet away. His friend was breathing softly, easily, but was unconscious. Behind Eric was a small alcove, into which was set the massive rolling door that Daniel had seen from outside. It was, of course, sealed tight.
And the walls were covered in pictures. They were etched and stained into the very stone—scenes of battle, of hunting and of worship. The artwork was primitive and reminded Daniel of the cave paintings in Europe he’d seen pictures of at school. These paintings were better preserved, though, and in most places the color was still vibrant, the detail remarkable. These paintings had been hidden from the elements, and from prying humanity, for many years. Behind Plunkett’s chair was another kind of mural, a collage of photographs—framed and hung with care from the rocky wall like family pictures in a hallway. Such a modern affectation looked out of place in this ancient cave.
“They tell the story of this mountain,” said Plunkett, gesturing to the painted walls. “This place had stories many thousands of years before our ancestors walked its forests. We are such a funny race, humans. Compelled to scratch our lives out in ink, on paper or rock. Whether it’s a limestone wall or the pulp pages of a comic book, I suspect it’s hardwired in our DNA—the urge to record our lives.”
Daniel said nothing, but he thought of the drawings that lined the walls back in the tree fort. Generations of extraordinary children who’d scribbled down a record of their lives in pencil and crayon.
As if reading Daniel’s mind, Plunkett pointed to the framed photographs behind him. “These are my humble contributions to history. A wall of remembrance for those who came before. My Hall of Would-be Heroes.”
Daniel squinted at the photos, and though it was too dark to see any details from where he was lying, one thing was certain: they were all pictures of children. Generations of children.
“So you collect … what? Pictures of your victims from over the years?”
“Victims? Hardly. I saved each and every one of these children. I saved them from themselves.”
“So, we are in Mount Noble … I mean, Witch Fire Mountain?”
“Yes.” Plunkett smiled. “Resting comfortably in the belly of the beast.” That turn of phrase sent a chill through Daniel. He didn’t like to think about resting in the belly of anything.
“And what about my friends?” Daniel asked, remembering the sight of their bodies strewn about the ground. “Are they all right?”
“They are fine. They were a bit stunned by my grand entrance, but no permanent damage was done. In fact, I believe they are on their way to rescue you even now.”
Daniel let go a sigh of relief and with it his greatest fear—that his friends had been hurt, or worse, in the confrontation with the Shroud.
“Interesting move, recruiting the Cudgens boy to use against me. Here I have taken away your king,” said Plunkett, gesturing to Eric’s still form, “and you go and move one of your pawns to replace him. That took first-class strategic thinking.”
Plunkett leaned in close, his creepy smile wide. “Do you play chess, Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m glad my metaphors, at least, aren’t wasted on you.”
“Wasted on me? What are you talking about? You kidnapped me, attacked my friends….” Daniel knew that he might be pushing it too far—he feared the anger lurking inside the old villain—but he couldn’t stop. These games had gone far enough. “Why don’t you end all of this?”
To his surprise, Plunkett just smiled. “You are burning with questions, aren’t you? Always the detective, even to the bitter end. I like that about you. Very well, ask away. I will indulge you with an answer or two. You will find that I can be generous when it suits me. Ask.”
“Okay, then—who are you? I mean, really? Are you Herman Plunkett … or the Shroud?”
“Where does Herman end and the Shroud begin?” Plunkett said. “Is the Shroud Herman’s secret identity or is Herman the Shroud’s?”
Plunkett chuckled, and Daniel squirmed at the sound of that laughter. There was a frayed edge to the old man’s voice that had been well hidden until now. “So everything you told me was a lie. You lied to me and framed Eric for it all.”
“Not everything was a lie. I told you what you needed to know, and fed you the information that suited me and my purposes. It’s true that I used you to turn your friends against each other, but it was necessary, I assure you. The special children of Noble’s Green were no match for my power—until you showed up and began uniting them against me! I couldn’t have you all standing together. So I manipulated you to get you and your friends away from Eric, and without his strength the rest of your friends will be little bother. Even with the help of the Cudgens boy.
“I brought you here, in part, to say thank you.”
Daniel bit back the urge to tell him where to put his “thanks.” In
stead he decided to press him for more information. “What is this place?”
“A hidden network of caves that runs throughout the mountain. They were used as homes by the primitive peoples many thousands of years ago. Most collapsed long ago. This one was uncovered only by chance by the quarry company, which I own, of course.”
Plunkett sat back in his chair, his face practically breaking with that smug grin of his. That smile made Daniel sick to his stomach. Still, there had to be some value in keeping him talking. Plunkett had at least revealed that Mollie and the others were on their way to rescue him, though they did not seem to worry the villain in the slightest. It was up to Daniel, then, to discover something that they could turn to their advantage. Daniel’s fascination with Sherlock Holmes came from Holmes’s mastery of the details. Holmes viewed every situation as a giant puzzle, and the details that ordinary people missed were often the pieces that put it all together. If he kept Plunkett talking, perhaps the old man would reveal something that Daniel might use against him, something in the details….
“So, you own the quarry. Which, basically, means that you own most of Mount Noble….”
Plunkett made a sour face at the mention of Noble’s name, but he nodded.
“But why?” Daniel asked. “What use are a bunch of cave paintings if you are just going to hide them from the rest of the world?”
“Think it through, Daniel. You’ve seen the paintings—these caves are a history, they are proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Proof that this has all happened before, and it will all happen again. The storm is coming, Daniel, and we must be prepared to meet it.” Plunkett chuckled. He was making less and less sense, and Daniel began to wonder if the old man was finally slipping into total madness.
“You said that some of what you told me at your house was true,” said Daniel. “I saw your photograph. You were at St. Alban’s, but you were just a boy.”
