“I’ll make sure you get to meet him soon,” Jessica whispered.
Beth nodded once and bolted for her own bedroom on scurrying, silent feet.
15
2:42 p.m.
DEAD ZONE
The house didn’t look like much. It squatted in darkness, out of repair and covered with twisting vines, shaded from the afternoon sun by the mushroom cloud of willow tree that dominated the front yard.
Dess looked at Geostationary again. This was the place. In fact, the equations that had led her here should have been obvious all along. Once she’d realized it was a base-sixty thing, the math had been easy.
Back in advanced algebra the year before, Mr. Sanchez had taught them how to convert into base two (turning regular numbers into ones and zeros), all the while claiming that this knowledge was going to get them computer jobs one day. Yeah, right. A few more machines in the Bixby High computer lab might’ve helped more.
But Dess always humored Sanchez, and practicing new bases was a pleasant distraction. It had kept her brain busy back in the days before Jessica Day had come along to keep everyone busy all the time.
After mastering binary (which had taken about 256 seconds), Dess had tackled base sixty because there were sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour. So Dess had it down cold that, for example, 2:31 A.M. was 9,060 seconds after midnight.
Of course, what would you do with that bit of trivia?
The answer had come when she’d started playing with her father’s oil-drilling maps two Fridays ago. All of the secret hour lay within a single degree of longitude and latitude, the twelve-riddled 36 north by 96 west. But degrees, it turned out, were sort of like hours. They were divided into sixty minutes, and each of those minutes was divided into sixty seconds. That had been the big revelation: if coordinates used the same math as time, then the place where the secret hour happened could be sliced up into minutes and seconds, just like the hour itself.
Looking back, Dess knew she should have realized this before now.
From the mountains beyond Rustle’s Bottom, she had often watched midnight roll in. Like dawn, it swept from east to west, carried by the rotation of the earth. And like dawn, it didn’t hit in a perfectly straight line. There were bumps and ripples in midnight’s arrival.
But the shadows that convoluted the secret hour weren’t cast by mountain peaks or water towers. They were actually cast by numbers. All you had to do was start seeing the minutes and seconds that lay in a grid across the streets of Bixby, and it was obvious where the turbulence would arise.
Dess put Geostationary in the pocket of her coat, got off her bike, and pulled off her sunglasses. She was breathing hard. The moment her brain had finished the calculations, she’d practically run out of the school building, skipping last period and riding her bike here at about fifty miles an hour.
Now, though, Dess found herself in no hurry to approach the house. What sort of person would live in a spot like this? Just some random Bixbyite who couldn’t afford anything better? Or something worse, like a coven of darkling groupies?
But then she noticed the thirteen-pointed star mounted next to the door and felt a lot better. Realtors always told new arrivals in Bixby that in the old days, the plaques showed which houses had fire insurance. This was only a half lie. The tridecagrams were insurance, all right, but not against infernos.
The star was a good sign. She couldn’t imagine darkling groupies leaving a tridecagram stuck onto their house. Her eyes hunted for more reassurances and easily found them: the walkway was thirty-nine flagstones long, the chimney 169 bricks high. Perhaps this run-down shack had once been the headquarters of that Ladies’ Anti-Tenebrosity League that Rex was always talking about.
Dess started to lean her bike against the old willow. But then she saw the marks and froze.
A foot long and at least an inch deep, three parallel gouges had been cut into the thick bark. Giant claws had swept through the old willow, like carpet knives lacerating flesh. The yellow-green sap had welled up like blood and congealed. Judging from the size of the claws, the Wound had come from a very old darkling of the saber-toothed variety.
She touched the marks; still sticky. She didn’t need Rex to tell her this had happened recently… probably within the last two weeks.
Dess swallowed, the thought flooding through her again that she really shouldn’t have come here alone. This place could be hiding anything.
A few moments after Jonathan had handed her the captured coordinates of Darkling Manor, the pattern of minutes and seconds had coalesced in Dess’s mind. She understood now why Melissa had never spotted the unspeakable transactions taking place out in Las Colonias. There were dead zones in Bixby, places where midnight’s arrival threw up imperfections, like bubbles trapped in Lucite. There Melissa’s ability was useless, the shape of frozen time itself too tangled for her mind to penetrate. When Dess had done the math, the numbers on her new toy had led her here.
Right in the middle of the suburbs, not that far from where Jessica lived, this house squatted on the deadest of the dead zones.
Dess stood there for a while, trying to get her teeth to grip the worn-down nubs of her fingernails. Finally, though, she grimaced and let her bike fall against the tree It was broad daylight; no darklings lay in wait. And the thirteen-pointed star showed that one of the good guys had made this his home back in olden times. Dess had worked for days trying to understand how coordinates bent the rippled surface of midnight, and this discovery was hers to make. Alone.
She walked up the path.
The house was standing open behind a closed screen door. Dess pressed a button hanging from the door frame by a single screw, but nothing happened. Lowering her sunglasses to squint through the crumpled and pitted screen, she made a fist to knock.
Out of the darkness, a pale face peered back at her.
They stared at each other for a moment. The old woman was wrapped in a dark red nightgown, worn so thin that it shifted in the barely perceptible breeze that pushed past Dess and through the door. The woman’s eyes were wide open, the whites glowing in the darkness, but her expression showed more curiosity than fear.
“Come in,” she said. “It’s taken you long enough.”
16
2:54 p.m.
AFTER-SCHOOL SPECIAL
Thirty seconds before the scream of the last bell rang out, Melissa’s headphones were in place, her tape cued to her lancing song.
She leaned back, closing her eyes. Across Bixby High she could feel fingers gripping the sides of desks, books and pens gathered, backpacks zipped closed under the exhausted and complicit stares of teachers. The minds around her whirred with anticipated routes, the quickest way to lockers, to the nearest door and onto the bus, the fastest way out. The noise escalated maddeningly in the last few seconds and filled her head like a cafeteria chant pounded onto a table…
Out, out, out!
Finally the scream sounded, and the building exploded around her.
“Ooooh,” Melissa said. Last bell didn’t compare to midnight’s arrival, but it was still the second-best moment of her day.
She hit play and tipped her head back. Metal power chords detonated in her ears, drowning out the scrapes of desks and sneaker squeaks around her. She felt bodies struggling past each other in the halls, fingers attacking locker combinations, and unbottled conversations gushing through the halls.
Then the flow reached the doors and the pressure that had tormented her mind all day began to subside, like a lanced boil spilling its runny contents at last.
She sighed, opening her eyes. Mr. Rogers stood over her. The classroom was empty except for the two of them. She snapped off the tape.
“Melissa? Are you all right?”
“Never better.” Her satisfied smile only disturbed him more. Last semester she’d trained her final-period teacher to deal with the lancing ritual. She hoped Rogers wasn’t going to give her any trouble.
“Do you do that
after every class?”
“No, just this one. I like to relax for a moment after the rigors of a hard school day. I hope that’s all right with you, Mr. Rogers.”
“You know, listening to music isn’t allowed in classrooms.”
Her eyes narrowed. I don’t turn it on until the last bell rings. When class is over. When school is over.”
She could taste the answer before he opened his mouth. The rancid butter flavor of a petty mind grasping for control.
“Still, Melissa,” he said, “this is a classroom, and I’d appreciate it if you waited until you were out in the hall before turning that thing on.”
A sharp retort curled her tongue, but Melissa let it slide. These last few days her temper had become easier to control.
Besides, as her social studies teacher liked to say, there were always productive ways to channel protest.
“Certainly, Mr. Rogers,” she said pleasantly. “Do you happen to live in Bixby?”
“What? Yes, over by the Dr. Pepper plant. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
She smiled. Mr. Rogers lived close enough to visit, one of these nights during the midnight hour.
Asshole.
The empty bleachers reeked of defeat. Melissa never paid attention to football, but sitting here she could tell that the Bixby Tigers were losers and had been for a long time. Her mind was filled with futility and the bleak taste of cheering for a team that didn’t stand a chance.
Wafting up from the hidden spaces underneath, she also caught the scent of secret pleasures, along with a lingering fear of getting caught. Lifting her sunglasses to peer down through the bleachers, she saw cigarette butts hiding in the slatted shadows. Melissa could always sense hidden places—the narrow alleys between temporary classrooms, the janitors’ closets and basement doors that drew truants to them. They all had the same taste: sweet momentary freedom spiced with nervous glances over the shoulder.
She wondered what was keeping Rex. Bixby High was mostly empty, leaving only the tastes of band practice, a drama rehearsal, and the football team, who were doing mindless calisthenics on the field in front of her. Melissa closed her eyes, inhaling deeply to relish the peace of after-school depopulation.
Suddenly a picture began to form in her mind, a remnant from the scant minutes she’d been connected to the woman in Darkling Manor. Angie—that was her name—full of confidence and contempt for her partner. Melissa had fished only fragments from Angie’s mind before the half-thing had chased them off, but here, waiting for Rex, the long benches of the bleachers triggered a fleeting image. It floated before her eyes now: the construction in the desert, a road stretching out into the salt flats until it simply… ended.
It was huge. And it had something to do with the halfling. Angie had never seen the nightmarish creature, of course. She was a stiff whenever it appeared. But she had communicated with the halfling through lore symbols and knew it bore some relationship to the thing being built in the desert… the road to nowhere.
“Hey!” Rex’s voice called from below, scattering the half-formed picture in her mind.
The bleachers wobbled as he made his way up, hands in pockets to thread his long coat between the seats. He sat heavily beside her, kicking up his black boots. The sun glimmered along the metal loop of Conscientious around his ankle.
“Hey, Cowgirl.”
“Hey, Loverboy.” Rex smiled at the new nickname, as he always did now that the touching thing was working out.
A football bounced against the bottom row of the bleachers, wobbling to an uneven stop a few yards away. Calisthenics were over. The two watched a player in a Tigers uniform retrieve the ball and pause to give them a suspicious glance.
“Freaks!” he called, then turned and ran back to rejoin the other boys dressed in purple helmets and gold Lycra tights.
“Footballs are retarded,” Melissa said. “They’re not even round.”
Rex shrugged. “That must help our team. It makes the game more random, after all.”
“Why don’t they just flip a coin?”
He looked at her. “Um, they do. At the beginning.”
“Oh.” Melissa sighed. Even Rex didn’t understand how little she knew about pointless stuff like sports.
But Melissa had to admit that she could see the world more clearly lately. Bixby High wasn’t as overwhelming as usual. Today had actually been decent until Mr. Rogers had been pissy about the lancing ritual. Now that the school was mostly empty, Melissa had even recovered from that unpleasantness. The bumbling idiots scattered across the football field were strangely interesting to watch, chasing the errant ball like a flock of ducks, even making the same sorts of noises.
She smiled. Touching Rex, letting her mind open to his, had changed her. It alleviated the pressure in her brain. It was like letting a few thousand barrels blow out of a pinched-off oil well. She found herself wishing they’d started a long time ago.
“So which one is she?” she asked.
Rex turned toward the cheerleading tryouts just getting under way on the sidelines. Girls in sweats or last year’s uniforms were scrambling to obtain matching pairs from a frilly stack of pom-poms.
“She’s one of the tall ones,” Rex said. Melissa noticed that the cheerleading candidates were divided into very tall and very short. She wondered what height had to do with leading cheers. “She’s half Native American and wearing a uniform. Red sneakers?” Rex started to raise his arm to point, but Melissa pushed it down.
“I got her. She’s pretty.”
“You really never noticed her before? She’s, like, famous.”
“I don’t notice anything, Rex. Things either assault me or they don’t.”
Melissa closed her eyes. Nothing distinct was coming from any of the cheerleaders, just a blurry, competitive alpha-girl buzz—the sensation of beer foam going up her nose. And the testosterone-filled morons on the football field weren’t helping reception either.
She opened her eyes.
“Still too crowded. Let’s follow her after it’s over.” She spat between the bleacher slats to clear the accumulated tastes from her mouth.
“Sure,” Rex said. “Just thought we’d try. But I don’t want to lose her. She’s our best shot at finding Ernesto Grayfoot.”
Melissa shrugged. “Whatever. Once she’s away from the pom-pom club, I should be able to trail her.”
“You didn’t get anything in the library?”
“Hardly.” Melissa had slipped out of fourth period to linger outside Constanza and Jessica’s study hall. With classes in session, it had been a total waste of time. Only the minds of the two midnighters had come through—Jessica trying to get up the nerve to talk to Constanza and failing miserably, and Dess’s brain whirring through the last phases of some mathematical solution. She’d ridden off after sixth period in a hurry, toting her new coordinates toy and beaming thoughts of maps and numbers in all directions.
Melissa remembered the image she’d seen earlier, the fragment from Angie’s mind. “Hey, Rex, can we wait for Ms. Cheerleader in the parking lot? These bleachers are making my butt go to sleep.”
He laughed. “Sure.” A flutter of excitement moved in him.
“Yes,” she answered his unspoken question, “there’s something I want to show you.” She pulled off a glove one finger at a time as they made their way down. “While I was waiting, something triggered my memory. I saw the picture from that woman’s mind again, but clearer this time.”
“The construction project?”
“Yeah.” She paused at the bottom of the bleachers, pointing down the length of the lowest bench. “Whatever they’re building in the desert, it’s long and flat, like a road.”
“A road? To where?”
Melissa shrugged. “To nowhere. It just stops.”
“Darklings don’t build things.” Rex shook his head. “And they hate the highways that pass through the desert. But maybe the darkling groupies are building a trai
l to get out to some lore site.”
“I don’t know, Rex. It’s pretty huge for a trail. The biggest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Come show me. We’ll figure it out once we’ve found Ernesto.”
Melissa nodded and smiled, feeling Rex’s quiet confidence cut through the buzz of football practice and mindless cheerleader pep. She put her arm around his waist as they walked back to her car, glad for the thousandth time that she’d tracked him down eight years before, running through empty, blue streets in her cowgirl pajamas, seeking the only other midnight mind that she could feel in Bixby. She couldn’t wait to touch him again—at least they had something to do while they waited.
Following Constanza Grayfoot was going to make for a long afternoon.
17
3:04 p.m.
MADELEINE
“Back in my day, there were maps. You didn’t need to consult a polymath every time you built a house. Do you want tea?”
Dess blinked again, realizing that she hadn’t said a word since crossing the threshold. Her eyes had adjusted quickly to the gloom, but her brain was overwhelmed by the clutter stacked everywhere: rusty tridecagrams, Bixby town seals, steel window guards thirteen bars across, fireplace grates with a fine mesh woven in patterns of thirty-nine. A vast horde of antidarkling antiques were piled against every wall, jumbled together into jagged metal sculptures that begged to have their angles calculated.
She started to reply, but from another room the wail of a teakettle erupted, sweeping from a low moan up to an angry screech.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the old woman said. “Back in my day, young people didn’t take so long to answer simple questions.”
Dess closed her mouth.
Rex was going to freak when he saw this place. It made his historical collection look like some shabby roadside snake zoo. Here was a whole town’s worth of midnighter heirlooms, the heritage of lost generations quietly rusting away. Dess wondered if there was lore here too, not just a few scraps of information written invisibly onto desert rocks, but a library as extensive as the rummage sale around her. She would have to ask. There was a lot she was going to ask, once she got her mouth working again.
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