The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2)

by Michael Stiles

  “I’ll tell him,” Jonathan said. “But you have to leave. Now!” He held up a hand, and she felt herself pushed backward by an invisible, irresistible force. She cried out, and only after making the noise did she realize she was back in Perla’s room, lying on the bed in the dark.

  The door opened, letting in a little light from the hallway. “Were you yelling?” Perla asked.

  “I’m fine,” Sarah replied. She hesitated, unsure whether to say where she’d just been. But Perla was a friend; it was all right to tell her. “I tried going to see him.”

  “I thought you might,” said Perla. “Mason won’t let anyone near him. Urizen is always out there.”

  Sarah rubbed her stomach, which was still feeling rather queasy. “I just wanted to know that he’s okay,” she said with a sigh.

  “He’ll be all right,” Perla said through a yawn. “Jonathan’s got it under control for now.”

  “For now,” Sarah said. At that moment, though, things didn’t seem like they were under control at all.

  * * *

  The sun was up when Sarah awoke again, feeling worn out and still sick to her stomach. She had not slept well; her eyes felt grainy and her mouth was dry. A sip of water helped a little, but not much. She lay back down, stretching out to make herself more comfortable, but she just couldn’t relax in someone else’s bed.

  A telephone was ringing in the next room. She heard Perla’s footsteps as she walked across the apartment to answer it. There was a brief silence, and then the footsteps approached the bedroom. Perla knocked once and opened the door. “It’s for you,” she whispered, looking bewildered. Her red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and she wore red flannel pajamas.

  “Who is it?” said Sarah as she sat up in the bed. “Nobody knows I’m here. Unless you told.”

  “No, of course not. She says her name is Eileen.”

  Sarah groaned. “Nightfinger. How did they find me?”

  “What? Eileen Nightfinger?”

  “No, Eileen Powers. She works for Nightfinger. But…” She rubbed her eyes and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. The question had been just a stray thought when it first crossed her mind, but the more she thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. “How did they find me?” She gulped down more water before going out to the other room to pick up the phone.

  “Hello?” Sarah’s voice sounded much more timid than she had intended.

  “Sarah,” said Eileen’s voice over the line. “How are you doing? Feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine.” The answer was instinctive, and it was a poor attempt to lie. “No. I feel crummy. Where did you get this number?”

  There was brief pause. “Mr. Myles said I could reach you at this number. Crummy in what way?”

  “How did he get the number, then?” Sarah didn’t try to hide the annoyance in her voice. She had had quite enough of Lester Myles and his nonsense.

  “I’ll explain all of that,” said Eileen. “You said you weren’t feeling well.”

  Sarah looked at Perla, who was watching with a look of deep suspicion.

  “Just a little tummy trouble,” Sarah said.

  “Nausea?”

  “Yes, nausea. Why does it matter? I stopped to visit a friend, but I can be in New York tomorrow. I can take a sick day, can’t I?”

  “Of course you can, dear,” Eileen said. “How long have you been feeling this way?”

  “I’m not pregnant,” Sarah replied, aware that she was sounding defensive.

  Eileen laughed. “I didn’t suggest that. Have you felt this way before today?”

  The questions were aggravating her nausea. “I don’t know! Sometimes you just feel lousy, you know?”

  “When was the last time you had stomach trouble? Has it happened any other times when you’ve been traveling? Or is this the first time?” There was an urgency in her tone that struck Sarah as rather extreme for the circumstances.

  “I can’t remember. I guess it happened once before, when I was…” She stopped to think for a moment. “The last time I was in Denver.” She had forgotten about it until now, but the yucky feeling had happened the last time she’d traveled through the Stapleton airport.

  “You didn’t mention it then. I always ask how you’re feeling when you call in, don’t I? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I thought you were just asking to be nice.”

  “Sarah, everything I do is for a reason. I’m never nice.”

  “Well, maybe you should be,” said Sarah.

  There was silence on the line.

  “Once in a while,” Sarah added.

  “I’ll think about it,” Eileen said flatly. “So. Forget about coming back to New York. We want you to stay in Denver a while longer.”

  Perla was watching intently as this conversation went on, clearly hoping for some clue about what was happening. She caught Sarah’s eye, but all Sarah could do was shrug as she said, “Why?”

  “Something in Denver is bothering you, causing your nausea. I want you to find the cause. The epicenter.”

  Sarah moved the receiver to her other ear. “You’re not making sense. I just have a stomach bug.”

  “It’s not a bug. We’re pretty sure it’s…” She trailed off, then started again. “Sarah, we couldn’t tell you this before, but you’ve been on a mission. Ever since you started working for Nightfinger. Mr. Myles has been looking for something, and we hired you to help him find it.”

  This was not helping Sarah’s stomach feel any better. “A mission,” she repeated. “Looking for what? And why me?”

  Perla put her ear up next to the receiver to try to listen in. Sarah tilted it away from her ear to make it easier.

  “Mr. Myles can explain everything. If I can have him call you―”

  “I want you to explain it to me. Now.”

  “All right. There’s―”

  “And then I want to talk to Lester Myles. In person, not over the phone.”

  Eileen sighed. “I’m sure we can make that happen. As for your mission… Mr. Myles is looking for someone. Someone nasty who’s been hiding from us. We think this person has been working on creating something terrible.”

  “Is his name Nathaniel?”

  It was Eileen’s turn to be surprised for a change. “How do you know his name?”

  “I don’t feel like telling you that.”

  “We’ll discuss it later, then.”

  “We won’t.”

  “We will. It’s very important that we find this man, because Mr. Myles thinks he’s planning to kill a whole lot of folks. This… thing Nathaniel is working on gives off a certain kind of energy, and some people are especially sensitive to those vibrations. You just happen to be one of them. That’s why we hired you.”

  “But I got this job by accident,” Sarah said. “I just bumped into you on the street, and then…” Her mind went back to that day, when she had met Eileen after her disastrous interview with the law firm.

  “Nothing Mr. Myles does is an accident. We had already been tracking you for a while. Who else is on the phone? I can hear two people breathing.”

  Sarah exchanged a look with Perla. “A friend,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Perla.

  “Your friend can help you, then,” Eileen said. “I’m going to need you to act quickly. You’ll get used to the vibrations before long, and the nausea will wear off. I need to you find the source right away. Do you have access to a car?”

  Sarah looked at Perla. “I have a car,” Perla said.

  “What are we looking for?” said Sarah.

  “Wherever the feeling is strongest, that’s where you’ll find him. If you can feel it where you are right now, then you’re probably pretty close. Within twenty miles, I’d say. Find the place where the vibrations are strongest, and then contact me. Lester will be on the next flight to Denver. Go now, before it starts to wear off.”

  But Sarah didn’t move. “You haven’t been very honest with me so far
,” she said. “I don’t know if I feel like helping you anymore. I’ve gotten you this far. Why doesn’t Lester do the rest?”

  Eileen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sarah, please. We need you. Lester has already been exposed to these kinds of vibrations, enough that he would have a hard time pinpointing them. We need you just a little longer, and then you can go home. You’ll be paid very well for everything you’ve done.”

  “Hold on.” Sarah covered the mouthpiece and lowered the receiver to her lap. “Perla, what should I do?”

  Perla was frowning, deep in thought. “Eileen sounds like she means well,” she said.

  “I don’t trust her at all.” Sarah knew she sounded bitter, but she hated being lied to.

  “I think we should do it.”

  Sarah knew that was the right answer, but she made Eileen wait a bit longer before she brought the receiver back up to her ear. “Will you promise that Mr. Myles will talk to me? I want him to explain everything. The Starlight factory, all of it.”

  “I promise,” said Eileen.

  Sarah sighed. “All right. I’ll try to look for the source. Once I do, that’s it. I’m finished with Nightfinger.”

  “Understood,” said Eileen.

  “And I want to meet Lester Myles when he gets here.”

  “You will. I’ll call you at this number in twenty-four hours.” She paused. “And… thank you.”

  30

  The Giant Bug

  “Gosh, this airport is gigantic,” said Joy as she took off her shoe to rub her sore foot.

  Rayfield finished his hamburger and grunted in agreement. Joy handed him a napkin.

  “It’d be easier if we split up,” Rayfield said. It was not the first time he had offered this suggestion, and Joy had to admit to herself that it made sense. But she didn’t want to be alone if she did find the men they were looking for.

  A plane took off, rattling the room with a deafening noise as it passed overhead.

  “If we just knew where they were going,” she said. She had barely touched her salad; the lettuce was wilted and it didn’t look very appetizing. But Rayfield had bought it for her, so she had taken a few bites. They were sitting by a big window that gave them a view of one of the airport terminals. The restaurant was inside a structure that looked to Joy like a flying saucer perched atop four long, curving legs. It made her think of the walking war-machines from The War of the Worlds. Rayfield thought it resembled a giant bug. From inside, though, it just looked like a restaurant, a big, circular one with windows all around. She took another bite of salad and then pushed her plate away.

  “Let’s take another walk around,” Rayfield said.

  “My feet are killing me,” Joy complained. She was not usually a complainer, but after walking around the airport for over an hour, she had found herself in a rather complainy mood.

  There was a loud crash from the other side of the room, the sound of a pile of dishes falling to the floor. They both looked around for the source, but all they saw was a lot of other patrons looking around for the same reason.

  “It’s probably too late,” Joy grumbled. “They beat us here by a couple hours at least.”

  Rayfield gave her one of his no-nonsense looks. “You don’t sound like my Joy. Joy never gives up.”

  “Well, this Joy feels like giving up.”

  Another noise came from the same area as the first, this one like the sound of several pieces of silverware being rattled together.

  Joy sighed. “It’s just no use wandering around LAX while the guys we’re looking for are on a plane for wherever the heck they’re going. We missed them.”

  “They’re not on a plane,” Rayfield said. “They’re here.”

  She smiled at him. His stubborn streak was cute. Sometimes. “You’re sweet, Shnookie. But we’re too late.”

  “No,” he said. “Look over there.” He motioned toward the spot where two waiters were sweeping pieces of broken plates into a pair of dustpans. At the table next to them, quivering like a shaved poodle, was the Cuban.

  “Rayfield!” Joy exclaimed. She leaned over the table to give him a hug that nearly knocked him out of his chair. The Cuban was seated by himself, which provided just the opportunity she needed. She rushed over to his table, keeping her eyes fixed on him as if he might vanish at any moment.

  “Hi,” she said as she flopped down into the chair next to the man and grabbed his arm. He pulled back instantly, looking scared out of his wits. No one had ever been frightened of Joy before, and she was suddenly unsure what to say to put him at ease. “I got your note,” was all she could think of.

  “Yellow-hair girl,” the Cuban whispered.

  “I’m Joy,” said Joy. “And this is Rayfield,” she added, because Rayfield had just caught up with her and sat down in the other chair. The man’s eyes went wide and he shrank back from Rayfield in terror. Joy was still holding his left arm tightly, but his right arm flopped about on the tabletop like a fish until he knocked his water glass to the floor. The waiters on cleanup duty shot him angry glares.

  “Why did you say you’re a Slav?” said Joy.

  “A slave,” Rayfield corrected.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” she said.

  The man’s lips trembled, but he did not speak. Another airliner flew overhead, and the whole restaurant shook.

  “What’s your name?” Rayfield asked him, once they could converse again.

  “Carlos.” He jerked violently, as though having a seizure, and bit his lip hard. “No! Not Carlos. Jorge. Jorge. Jorge.” His voice dropped back to a whisper as he repeated the name half a dozen times. All the while his right hand twitched and flopped wildly.

  “Jorge,” Joy said, lowering her voice. People were still watching, so she glared at each of them until they looked away. “Where’s your friend?”

  He glanced over toward the exit. “Not a friend. He’s coming back. Went to ask about a flight. We missed our plane.” His English was accented but fluent.

  “Where are you headed?” asked Rayfield.

  Jorge didn’t answer, but his twitching increased noticeably.

  “We can help you,” Joy whispered. “If you want to get away.”

  “No,” said Jorge. “No. I do not need to.”

  “But in your note you said―”

  “I did not write a note.”

  Joy exchanged a confused look with Rayfield.

  “I did not write a note,” he said again. His hand thrashed violently on the table, then stopped. His fingers seemed to be grasping for something, but there was nothing nearby to grasp.

  Joy looked at the exit. There was no sign of the other man, but he was nearby. If they could take Jorge with them… but she didn’t think he would be willing to go anywhere. “What’s wrong with your hand?” she said.

  He did not respond, other than to look down at his hand and then back at Joy’s face.

  “I think he wants to write something,” Rayfield said.

  Joy looked at the man’s hand again. It did seem to be moving in a writing sort of motion. “Do you think so?” She rummaged through her purse and found the sketch she had been showing people. Jorge gasped when he saw his own image on the paper. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Joy, turning the paper over to the other side. “Now if I could just find my…”

  “Pen,” said Rayfield. He was holding out a pen from the Howard Johnson. Rayfield had a tendency to finish her sentences, which often, but not always, struck her as cute. Joy took it, thanked him, and put the pen in Jorge’s hand. He held it firmly. A moment later, he began to scribble on the tabletop.

  “Not on the table!” said Joy. She lifted his arm and put the paper under the pen, and he began to write:

  cant talk

  Joy frowned at the words. “Do you mean you’re not allowed to talk, or you actually can’t talk?”

  “Does that matter?” said Rayfield.

  Joy started to answer in the affirmative, but Jorge was writing
again.

  Sorry abt break in they made me do it, he wrote. He did not look down at his hand; his attention seemed fixated on the exit where he was expecting his friend to reappear. The hand moved on its own, forming words in a messy but legible script. Bad person make me do it.

  “What bad person?” said Joy.

  Another plane flew overhead as he wrote. Make me help break in find info abt somebody. Bad one work for Nixon.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Rayfield. “You were right.”

  Make me do other things too

  He paused, then added: hurt people

  “Oh my,” said Joy. “Is it just you? Is your friend a slave, too?”

  Jorge’s mouth opened; it seemed like he desperately wanted to speak. But instead of speaking, he kept writing. Bay of pigs try to kill castro did not work. Make me do lot of other things. He not a slav like me.

  “Wait,” Joy said. The words were coming so rapidly that she couldn’t keep up. It took some time for her to make out the handwriting. Every now and then he would reach the edge of the paper, and she had to move the paper constantly to stay under his pen.

  More people they want me to kill and hurt

  He paused in his writing. Joy waited, rereading those last words on the page. “Who do they want you to… to hurt?”

  Manuel Wilson reporter, he wrote next. Mulbary. Bismuth. Bismuth.

  None of those names meant anything to Joy, but the idea of hurting people bothered her greatly. “Why?”

  Jorge blinked a few times, still watching the entrance to the restaurant. His mouth continued to work as though he was trying to break down whatever block was preventing him from talking. He is malo, he wrote. Malo malo malo.

  Joy looked at Rayfield. “It means, bad,” Rayfield told her. “Evil bad.”

  “Who’s malo?” Joy asked Jorge. “Nixon?”

  Everybody malo.

  “That’s not helpful,” said Joy.

  “He’s trying to help,” Rayfield protested. “Look, he’s writing again.”

  Cruller. For the first time, Jorge looked down at the page of scribbled words. His breath caught in his throat when he saw that name written on the paper. Immediately he scribbled over the word, blacking it out. Then, underneath where he’d written it the first time, he wrote it again. Cruller. Again he scribbled over the name until it was illegible.