by Ned Rust
And here Patrick’s mind wandered from the llamas at the National Zoo and the toothpaste tube Neil had left in Patrick’s sneaker with the cap off while they were in the hotel room and how he got toothpaste all through his sneaker and then Uncle Andrew taking them to that picnic at the cemetery and the Smithsonian and the Library of Congress and … the images flowed and changed without his control yet it was perfectly natural—this was what happened when you fell asleep. But then something made him start. It was a noise or maybe, rather, it was that there was no longer any noise at all. The buzzing of the room’s displays had completely stopped. He sat up in the pitch-dark and noticed the mattress was no longer matching his movements. Kempton was still snoring softly, but other than that, everything was silent. It was like the power had been cut.
He felt around for his binky to check the time—was it seven dunts already?—but, just as he located the holster on the bedside table, there was a house-shaking tremor and what sounded like a distant clap of thunder.
Kempton whimpered and left off snoring.
There was a clunking noise then, and the door slid open, the word egzit glowing red from its lintel.
Patrick picked up his binky. It didn’t seem to be working—the screen was entirely blue like it had been during the locker-room incident. There was another tremor and rumble, this one bigger than the last.
“Wha!?” said Kempton, and Patrick heard his sheets whipping around. “Why’s it so dark!?” he pleaded. “What’s happening!?”
“I don’t know,” said Patrick. “There’s a thunderstorm or something. Maybe the power’s out?”
“What?!” said Kempton. “That’s not even possible!”
“Well, it’s pretty dark. And my binky’s offline. And the bed’s stopped doing its thing when I move.”
“Deacons’ eyes!” blurted Kempton. “You’re right! Look—the evac lights are illuminated! Maybe the derecho—”
He was cut short by a tremor that knocked the boys flat onto their backs. The emergency lights went out and there was a blast of windblown rain. A little bit of light returned, too, though not much—just enough for Patrick to detect that the wall and ceiling of Kempton’s room had been torn away and that the blue-black sky was being blotted out by the smudgy but distinct shape of a very, very large woman.
CHAPTER 42
Backup Driver
Eva scowled into her iPhone. She was already in a bad mood from having had such a terrible night’s sleep. She’d kept waking up from the strangest dream about her family going on vacation in this weird place where there were friendly monsters, like a super-realistic theme park for The Lord of the Rings or Narnia or something. And then her brother Patrick had climbed over a fence and disappeared into one of the exhibits and then she and her brothers and sisters and parents began running around and fighting the park guards, who were like these blind robot-zombie dudes who were really strong. Anyhow, it hadn’t exactly been a nightmare—most of it had actually been more fun than scary—but it sure hadn’t made for a restful night.
But what was specifically pissing her off now was that Nana was coming to get them from practice. She loved her grandmother, but this was not good. Nana was a ridiculously slow driver and Eva was meeting Lindsay and Madison at Starbucks at three—Ashton Lane and his friends had lately been spotted hanging out there after Saturday lacrosse practice—and she absolutely had to shower before Carly got back from soccer and hogged the bathroom herself.
Also, Nana always struck up inappropriate conversations with Eva’s friends.
“Nana’s picking us up,” she said to Sabrina. “Do not give her anything but yes-or-no answers, okay?”
Sabrina looked up from her own iPhone and blinked at Eva through her too-small Kate Spade glasses. Sabrina was Eva’s swim-team training partner and, at least during the season, Eva spent more one-on-one time with her than with any other human being. But Eva made sure their bond ended there. Out of water, Sabrina was sensitive, gawky, and hesitant—Eva’s antithesis.
It also didn’t help that Sabrina was now starting to beat Eva at meets. Eva had always been the better natural athlete in terms of coordination and general athleticism, but Sabrina’s freakishly long arms and legs were clearly becoming a decisive factor in the pool.
“Um, okay,” said Sabrina.
“Really,” said Eva, slamming closed her locker. “Just shut her down. She needs to concentrate on the driving. Trust me.”
Sabrina nodded and tried to smile, not that Eva was even looking her way.
“Come on,” Eva said, shouldering her bright yellow Speedo bag and starting for the door. Sabrina struggled with her sweatshirt and hurried to follow.
Nana drove an ancient Renault Fuego. Renault hadn’t been selling cars in the United States for decades, but Nana had a mechanic in Mt. Kisco she’d been going to forever and he and she somehow kept the thing going. Eva had to admit it was a little cool driving around in an ’80s French automobile—it did turn some heads—but the interior was appalling.
Thirty years of incessant cigarette smoke had basically turned the vehicle into an ashtray on wheels.
“There she is,” said Eva. “And, who’d’ve thunk it—she’s parked illegally.”
The silver hatchback had pulled in from the wrong side of the drive and stopped smack in the middle of the yellow hash marks of the fire lane. Through a partially opened window, Nana’s bony, jewel-encrusted hand beckoned frantically. The two girls pulled up their hoods and hurried down the still-rain-dampened steps.
“Remember, no spreken zie English, okay?”
Sabrina nodded.
“And you better sit up front. There’s no way you’ll fit in that backseat. Nana says it was designed to hold a baguette, a bouquet, a bottle of wine, and nothing more.”
“Hurry up, girls!” shouted the old woman as they crossed the drive. “Emergency, emergency!”
Eva crinkled her brow as she opened the passenger door. “What’s going on, Nana?”
“You’ve lost a brother!” said the old woman.
“What!?” said Eva, climbing into the tar-stained back.
“Your silly brother ran off someplace and didn’t tell anybody.”
“Why is this a surprise? Somebody just discovered Neil’s selfish and inconsiderate?”
“Not Neil, Patrick,” said Nana. Eva arranged her legs sideways and snapped the passenger seat back into its forward position.
“Patrick? I guess that’s a little weird, then.” She paused a moment, remembering her dream last night. “But, on the other hand, it’s not like he’s not a little weird himself. You remember Sabrina?” she asked as her friend got into the front seat.
“Of course I do! My how you’ve grown into a lean green bean—you’re a veritable fashion model!”
Unobserved, Eva rolled her eyes as her friend stammered a protest.
“Well,” continued Eva, “so what’s the big deal? I think we can rule out that he’s gone and joined a gang.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Nana, popping the Renault into gear and continuing the wrong way down the driveway. “But your mother’s making quite a fuss—the fire department and the police have both been to the house.”
“Really?” asked Eva.
“She’s quite convinced something bad’s happened.”
“Well, Mom does sometimes overreact, you know.”
“I suppose I do know that. But she’s claiming maternal intuition in this case, and I happen to know something about that, too.”
“Intuition? You mean like ESP, Nana?”
“I guess that’s right. Sure. But I’m not talking woo-woo stuff. When you’re a mother, sometimes you just know things about your kids that other people can’t grok.”
“Grok?”
“It’s a ’60s word, dear,” said Nana, tapping her cigarette at her window as she turned left on Riverside. At least half the ash blew back inside and swirled like snow around Eva. “Came from a science fiction novel. It kind of means
comprehend.”
“Well, what’s the plan, then? I have to shower and then I’ve got a thing in town—”
“Huh. You going to this thing in town too, Sabrina?”
“Uh, no, I have to study,” said Sabrina.
“You hear that, Eva—Sabrina has to study.”
“We take different classes, Nana.”
“Ah,” said Nana, bringing the Renault almost all the way up to the thirty-mile-per-hour town speed limit that nobody but she observed. “Well, I guess you’ll have to see what your mother wants done when you get home. It might be a good idea for you to stay home till they locate Patrick.”
“Great,” muttered Eva, her mind already turning to what she was going to do to her little brother if he screwed up her afternoon. “Just great.”
CHAPTER 43
Biggy Packing
A flicker of lightning illuminated the rain- lashed space where Kempton’s bedroom wall and ceiling had been. The enormous figure occupying it was a woman—maybe thirty feet tall—very hairy, very wet, and generally very giant-like except that she wore running sneakers, a backpack, and an ugly flannel shirt tucked into army pants that were pulled up too high—way over her belly.
Patrick decided the big woman basically resembled a giant version of one of the vegetable-stand workers at the Hedgerow Heights Farmers’ Market. Her face was big chinned and twinkly eyed, and she was clasping her hands in apologetic fashion like she’d sort of ripped open the house by accident and was expecting to be scolded.
Kempton was more than a little freaked out: the scream he let loose was maybe only a half note lower than a coach’s whistle.
The giant spoke up, her voice conveying a distinct lack of threat. “My apologies for the rudeness of this introduction,” she said above the howling wind. “My name is Purse-Phone, and I’m here to pick up Patrick Griffin and take him on a behind-the-scenes tour of the Deaconry!”
“Run, Patrick, RUN!” yelled Kempton.
The giant seemed annoyed for a moment. “You needn’t be a-pointing out to me that you’re not Patrick, Kempton Puber!” said the giant. “I know which a you is which, and no harm’ll come to you, so whyn’t you just simmer down and butt’n your lip, ay?!”
There was a peal of thunder just then and Kempton recommenced shrieking.
Lightning flashed twice in quick succession. Patrick wondered if she had really said her name was Purse-Phone.
“Eeeee—iiiiiii!!!!” said Kempton
“Aye-yi-yi, you’re a nervous critter, ain’tcha? Okay, here’s what you say, Kempty: you tell those blind bastards that I said I’d mish ya up like a mosquito if ya didn’t let Patrick go with me and so you had to go along and so you did go along. Ka-peesh?”
Kempton went quiet for a moment. The blue light of his binky showed his face to be frozen in consideration of what the giant had said. “Wh-what?” he finally asked.
“You’re givin’ up your heretofore valiant defense of Patrick Griffin and your home so that I don’t kill ya, right?”
Kempton began keening again.
“Right,” said the giant, turning to Patrick. “I heard he was high-strung but mercy, he’s a ravin’ half-plucked chicken!
“Here,” she continued. A strobe of electric light showed her to be turning around and squatting. Her backpack, partially hidden by a massive braided ponytail, was actually not a pack so much as an open wooden frame with straps and handles all over it.
“Come on over, Patrick Griffin, and we’ll piggyback,” she said over her shoulder.
“What?” asked Patrick.
“There’s a ledge for yer feet, and handholds a’top. It’ll be much faster if it’s me that does the walking. And feel free to use my ponytail for climbing purposes, if it’s a help.”
Patrick looked at the big gray rope-like braid hanging down her back and gave a why-not shrug as he got up from the bed. It was all too crazy to take seriously.
“Unless you’d rather have me squish-squash Kempty here,” the big woman added. Kempton broke off from his latest scream to plead for his life.
“Take it easy, Kempton,” said Patrick. “You can tell she’s kidding. And, anyhow, I am going to go with her.”
Kempton stopped blubbering and, leaping from his bed, fled into the hallway, arms pinwheeling as he ran.
“Yah, that’s one nervous lad,” said the giant. “Think it’s too many video games, and not getting out enoof?”
“Where’s Oma?” asked Patrick as he approached the giant.
“We’ll be picking her up shortly,” she replied. “Didn’t want her family to see her going willingly—leave them the chance to think she was abducted.”
“Oh,” replied Patrick as he grabbed hold of her big wet ponytail and clambered up onto the back-platform.
“Say,” said the giant, peeking over her shoulder, “that’s some shirt you’re wearing—what color is that, dark zebra?”
Patrick looked down at his new shirt and shook his head. In the monochrome flashes of lightning he supposed it was hard to see that the stripes of Bing Steenslay’s shirt were yellow, not white.
“Um, I guess it would be dark bee.”
“Ah,” said the giant, squatting slightly. “Dark bee. Well, just don’t sting me, ay?”
Patrick smiled and wondered if she might be Canadian.
“All comfy?”
“Sure,” said Patrick, twining the handhold straps around his arms.
“Good. Now hold tight!”
And with that, the giant carried Patrick out into the stormy night, quickly crossing several streets and at least twice as many backyards.
“Got elbow room back there?” asked the giant over her shoulder, her booming words loud enough to be understood through the storm.
“Yeah, sure,” yelled Patrick. The only trouble was that the giant’s wet gray ponytail kept swishing back and forth and sometimes hitting him in the face.
“Good, ’cause here’s our friend!”
The big woman squatted and Oma stepped forward from behind a tree, quickly clambering aboard the platform next to Patrick. She was wearing a ninja suit, just like the girl from the locker room.
“Hello, Patrick Griffin!” she said, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“So what’s the plan?” asked Patrick as the giant stood. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to go learn a thing or two.”
“Grip tight, we’ve reached the woods!” announced the giant.
A welter of torn leaves and small sticks drove home the point. She forged forward maybe a half mile into what seemed to be a proper forest, and then the big woman stopped and tensed.
Patrick craned his neck to see what was going on. The giant was looking intently at a nearby pine tree and, after a moment, her hand darted down through its boughs. A horrible screeching noise ensued as the giant brought the same hand down and over her shoulder to Oma. Extending from the top of her massive fist was the head of a very unhappy raccoon.
Oma smiled and quickly secured a band around the panicked animal’s neck.
“What the!?” said Patrick.
Oma fist-bumped the giant’s finger and turned her attention to her binky. She pulled her ankh necklace up, swiped the pendant against the back of the device, and pressed it into Patrick’s belly.
“What are you doing!?” asked Patrick.
“What?!”
Patrick yelled the question more loudly. The storm’s roar was not easy to overcome even at a standstill.
“Had to disable—tracking—personal beacon!” she replied. “—raccoon—false signal—me, both. Red herring—better chance—”
“Okay!?” said the giant.
“Okay!” said Oma. The big woman opened her hand and the terrified raccoon scooted off into the storm.
“Come back soon, raccoon,” said Oma.
“Now,” said the giant, holding up a pair of earbuds the size of strawberries, “I hope you don’t think me unmannerly, but I make mooch better progress
when I keep a beat.”
“Enjoy!” said Oma.
The giant smiled affably, popped the buds into her ears, quickly did something to her oversized binky, replaced the device in the pocket of her flannel shirt, and took off running.
“—what—you think of Purse-Phone?!” asked Oma, leaning in close.
“Who is she?!” asked Patrick, trying to stop his head from banging against the pack.
“A Commonplacer!” she replied.
“Okay, and what is she?!” asked Patrick, looking up at the back of the woman’s hairy—woolly, actually—neck.
She gave an answer but a thunderclap shook the very ground just then. It sounded to Patrick like maybe she’d said “sock scratch.”
Patrick shook his head.
“—talk more when—get there,” she yelled. “It’s kind—hard—hear!”
“Okay!” agreed Patrick.
Oma leaned up against him again and he in turn against Purse-Phone’s back. The volume on the giant’s buds was up very loud and the beat—with which she was keeping pace—reminded Patrick of a Green Day song he’d always quite liked, “Warning Sign.” Despite the strangeness of it all, despite the noise, and despite the pelting rain, Patrick felt pretty warm and happy.
And, before very much longer, he fell sound asleep.
CHAPTER 44
Course Correction
Novitiate Frank Kyle had heard of “seeing stars” but it wasn’t till this moment, trying to stand, that he had experienced the condition firsthand.
Whatever had hit him had hit him very hard. Hard enough to have given him a concussion, hard enough to have made him lose consciousness. He explored his face with his fingers. The socket of his left eye was puffy, the bridge of his nose tender. Now, as long as his—
