Henri is waiting for me as usual, Bernie Kosar propped up on the passenger seat with his tail wagging, thumping the side of the door the second he sees me. I slide in.
“Athens,” says Henri.
“Athens?”
“Athens, Ohio.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the issues of They Walk Among Us are being written, and printed. It’s where they are being mailed.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I have my ways.”
I look at him.
“Okay, okay. It took three emails and five phone calls, but now I have the number.” He looks over at me. “That is to say, it wasn’t all that hard to find with a little effort.”
I nod. I know what he is telling me. The Mogadorians would have found it just as easily as he did. Which means, of course, that the scale now tips in favor of Henri’s second possibility—that somebody got to the publisher before the story further developed.
“How far away is Athens?”
“Two hours by car.”
“Are you going?”
“I hope not. I’m going to call first.”
When we get home Henri immediately picks up the phone and sits at the kitchen table. I sit down across from him and listen.
“Yes, I’m calling to inquire about an article in last month’s issue of They Walk Among Us.”
A deep voice responds on the other end. I can’t hear what is said.
Henri smiles. “Yes,” he says, then pauses.
“No, I’m not a subscriber. But a friend of mine is.”
Another pause. “No, thank you.”
He nods his head.
“Well, I’m curious about the article written on the Mogadorians. There was never a follow-up in this month’s issue as expected.”
I lean in and strain to hear, my body tense and rigid. When the reply comes the voice sounds shaken, disturbed. Then the phone goes dead.
“Hello?”
Henri pulls the phone away from his ear, looks at it, then brings it back in.
“Hello?” he says again.
Then he closes the phone and sets it on the table. He looks at me.
“He said, ‘Don’t call here again.’ Then he hung up on me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AFTER DEBATING IT FOR SEVERAL HOURS, Henri wakes up the next morning and prints door-to-door directions from here to Athens, Ohio. He tells me he’ll be home early enough so we can go to Thanksgiving dinner at Sarah’s house, and he hands me a slip of paper with the address and the phone number of where he’s going.
“Are you sure this is worth it?” I ask.
“We have to figure out what’s going on.”
I sigh. “I think we both know what is going on.”
“Maybe,” he says, but with full authority and none of the uncertainty usually accompanying the word.
“You do realize what you would tell me if the roles were reversed, right?”
Henri smiles. “Yes, John. I know what I would say. But I think this will help us. I want to find out what they have done to scare this man so badly. I want to know if they have mentioned us, if they are searching for us by means that we haven’t yet thought of. It will help us to stay hidden, stay ahead of them. And if this man has seen them, we’ll learn what they look like.”
“We already know what they look like.”
“We knew what they looked like when they attacked, over ten years ago, but they might have changed. They’ve been on Earth a long time now. I want to know how they’re blending in.”
“Even if we know what they look like, by the time we see them on the street, it’s probably going to be too late.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I see one, I’m going to try and kill it. There’s no guarantee it’s going to be able to kill me,” he says, this time with the uncertainty and none of the authority.
I give up. I don’t like a single thing about him driving to Athens while I sit around at home. But I know my objections will continue to fall on deaf ears.
“You sure you’ll be back on time?” I ask.
“I’m leaving now, which puts me there about nine. I doubt I’ll stay more than an hour, two at the most. I should be back by one.”
“So why do I have this?” I ask, and hold up the slip of paper with the address and phone number.
He shrugs. “Well, you never know.”
“Which is precisely why I don’t think you should go.”
“Touché,” he says, bringing an end to the discussion. He gathers his papers, stands from the table, and pushes in the chair.
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Okay,” I say.
He walks out to the truck and gets inside. Bernie Kosar and I walk out to the front porch and watch him drive away. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling. I hope he makes it back.
It’s a long day. One of those days where time slows down and every minute seems like ten, every hour seems like twenty. I play video games and surf the internet. I look for news that might be related to one of the other children. I don’t find anything, which makes me happy. That means we’re staying under the radar. Avoiding our enemies.
I periodically check my phone. I send a text message to Henri at noon. He doesn’t reply. I eat lunch and feed Bernie, and then I send another. No reply. A nervous, unsettled feeling creeps in. Henri has never failed to text back immediately. Maybe his phone is off. Maybe his battery has died. I try to convince myself of these possibilities, but I know that neither of them is true.
At two o’clock I start to get worried. Really worried. We’re supposed to be at the Harts’ in an hour. Henri knows the dinner is important to me. And he would never blow it off. I get in the shower with the hope that by the time I get out, Henri will be sitting at our kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee. I turn the hot water all the way up and don’t bother with the cold at all. I don’t feel a thing. My entire body is now impervious to heat. It feels like lukewarm water is streaming over my skin, and I actually miss the feeling of heat. I used to love taking hot showers. Standing under the water for as long as it lasted. Closing my eyes and enjoying the water hitting my head and running down. It took me away from my life. It let me forget about who and what I am for a little while.
When I get out of the shower, I open my closet and look for the nicest clothes I have, which are nothing special: khakis, a button-down shirt, a sweater. Because we live our life on the run, all I have are running shoes, which is so ridiculous it makes me laugh—the first time I’ve laughed all day. I go to Henri’s room and look in his closet. He has a pair of loafers that fit me. Seeing all his clothes makes me more worried, more upset. I want to believe he’s just taking longer than he should, but he would have contacted me. Something has to be wrong.
I walk to the front door, where Bernie is sitting, staring out the window. He looks up at me and whines. I pat him on the head and go back to my room. I look at the clock. It’s just after three. I check my phone. No messages, no texts. I decide to go to Sarah’s and if I don’t hear from Henri by five, I’ll figure out a plan then. Maybe I’ll tell them Henri is sick and that I’m not feeling well either. Maybe I’ll tell them Henri’s truck broke down and I need to go help him. Hopefully he shows up and we can just have a nice Thanksgiving dinner. It will actually be the first one we’ve ever had. If not, I’ll tell them something. I’ll have to.
Without the truck I decide I’ll run. I probably won’t even break a sweat, and I will be able to get there faster than I would in the truck. And because of the holiday, the roads should be empty. I say good-bye to Bernie, tell him I’ll be home later, and take off. I run on the edges of the fields, through woods. It feels good to burn some energy. It takes the edge off my anxiety. A couple times I get up near full speed, which is probably somewhere around sixty or seventy miles per hour. The cold air feels amazing whipping across my face. The sound of it is great, the same sound I hear when I stick my head out the window of the truck as we�
�re driving down a highway. I wonder how fast I’ll be able to run when I’m twenty, or twenty-five.
I stop running about a hundred yards from Sarah’s house. I’m not short of breath at all. As I walk up the driveway I see Sarah peek out the window. She smiles and waves, opening the front door just as I step onto her porch.
“Hey, handsome,” she says.
I turn and look over my shoulder to pretend she’s talking to somebody else. Then I turn back around and ask her if she’s talking to me. She laughs.
“You’re silly,” she says, and punches me in the arm before pulling me close to give me a lingering kiss. I take a deep breath and can smell the food: turkey and stuffing, sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, pumpkin pie.
“Smells great,” I say.
“My mom has been cooking all day.”
“Can’t wait to eat.”
“Where is your dad?”
“He got held up. He should be here in a little while.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”
We go inside and she takes me on a tour. It’s a great house. A classic family home with bedrooms on the second floor, an attic where one of her brothers has his room, and all of the living spaces—the living room, dining room, kitchen and family room—on the first floor. When we get to her room, she closes the door and kisses me. I’m surprised, but thrilled.
“I’ve been looking forward to doing that all day,” she says softly when she pulls away. As she walks towards the door, I pull her back to me and kiss her again.
“And I’m looking forward to kissing you again later,” I whisper. She smiles and punches me on the arm again.
We head back downstairs and she takes me to the family room, where her two older brothers, home from college for the weekend, are watching football with her father. I sit with them, while Sarah goes to the kitchen to help her mother and her younger sister with dinner. I’ve never been that into football. I guess, because of the way Henri and I have lived, I’ve never really gotten into anything outside of our life. My concerns were always with trying to fit into wherever we were, and then getting ready to go somewhere else. Her brothers, and her father, all played football in high school. They love it. And in today’s game, one of her brothers and her father like one of the teams, while her other brother likes the other team. They argue with each other, taunt each other, cheer and groan depending on what’s happening in the game. They’ve clearly been doing this for years, probably for their entire lives, and they’re clearly having a great time. It makes me wish Henri and I had something, besides my training and our endless running and hiding, that we were both into and that we could enjoy with each other. It makes me wish I had a real father and brothers to hang out with.
At halftime Sarah’s mother calls us in for dinner. I check my phone and still nothing. Before we sit down I go to the bathroom and try to call Henri and it goes straight to voice mail. It’s almost five o’clock, and I’m starting to panic. I come back to the table, where everyone is sitting. The table looks amazing. There are flowers in the center, with place mats and table settings meticulously placed in front of each of the chairs. Serving dishes of food are spread around the inside of the table, with the turkey sitting in front of Mr. Hart’s place. Just after I sit down, Mrs. Hart comes into the room. She has taken off her apron and is wearing a beautiful skirt and sweater.
“Have you heard from your dad?” she says.
“I just tried calling him. He, uh, is running late and asked us not to wait. He’s very sorry for the inconvenience,” I say.
Mr. Hart starts carving the turkey. Sarah smiles at me from across the table, which makes me feel better for about half a second. The food starts being passed, and I take small portions of everything. I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat very much. I keep my phone out and on my lap, and have it set to vibrate if a call or text comes through. With each passing second, however, I don’t believe anything is going to come through, or that I will ever see Henri again. The idea of living by myself—with my Legacies developing, and without anyone to explain them to me or train me, of running on my own, of hiding on my own, of finding my own way, of fighting the Mogadorians, fighting them until they are defeated or I am dead—terrifies me.
Dinner takes forever. Time is moving slowly again. Sarah’s whole family peppers me with questions. I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve been asked so many things by so many people in such a short period of time. They ask about my past, the places I’ve lived, about Henri, about my mother—who, I say as I always do, died when I was very young. It’s the only answer I give that has even the smallest sliver of truth. I have no idea if my answers even make sense. The phone on my leg feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. It doesn’t vibrate. It just sits there.
After dinner, and before dessert, Sarah asks everyone to go out to the backyard so she can take some pictures. As we go outside, Sarah asks if something is wrong. I tell her I’m worried about Henri. She tries to calm me down and tell me everything is fine, but it doesn’t work. If anything, it makes me feel worse. I try to imagine where he is and what he’s doing, and the only image I can bring is him standing before a Mogadorian, looking terrified, and knowing he’s about to die.
As we gather for the pictures, I start to panic. How could I get to Athens? I could run, but it might be hard to find my way, especially because I would have to avoid traffic and stay off the major highways. I could take a bus, but it would take too long. I could ask Sarah, but that would involve a huge amount of explaining, including telling her I was an alien and that I believed Henri had been either captured or killed by hostile aliens who were searching for me so that they could kill me. Not the best idea.
As we pose I get a desperate urge to leave, but I need to do it in a way that doesn’t make Sarah or her family mad at me. I focus on the camera, staring directly into it while trying to think of an excuse that will get the least amount of questions. I’m wracked with full-on panic now. My hands begin to shake. They feel hot. I look down at them to make sure they aren’t glowing. They’re not, but when I look back up I see that the whole camera is shaking in Sarah’s hands. I know that somehow I’m doing it, but I have no idea how or what I can do to make it stop. A chill shoots up my back. My breath catches in my throat and at the same time the glass lens of the camera cracks and shatters. Sarah screams, then pulls the camera down and stares at it in confusion. Her mouth drops open and tears well up in her eyes.
Her parents rush over to her to see if she’s okay. I just stand there in shock. I’m not sure what to do. I’m bummed about her camera, and that she’s upset about it, but I’m also thrilled because my telekinesis has clearly arrived. Will I be able to control it? Henri will be beside himself when he finds out. Henri. The panic returns. I clench my hands into fists. I need to get out of here. I need to find him. If the Mogadorians have him, which I hope they don’t, I’ll kill every damn one of them to get him back.
Thinking quickly, I walk over to Sarah and pull her away from her parents, who are examining the camera to figure out what has just happened.
“I just got a message from Henri. I’m really sorry, but I need to go.”
She’s clearly distracted, glancing from me to her parents.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes, but I have to go—he needs me.” She nods and we kiss gently. I hope it’s not for the last time.
I thank her parents and her brothers and sister and I leave before they can ask me too many questions. I walk through the house and as soon as I’m out the front door, I start running. I take the same route home that I took to get to Sarah’s house earlier. I stay off the main roads, run through the trees. I’m back in a few minutes. I hear Bernie Kosar scratching at the door as I sprint up the drive. He’s clearly anxious, as though he also senses something amiss.
I go straight to my room. I retrieve from my bag the piece of paper containing the phone number and address Henri gave me before leaving.
I dial the number. A recording comes on. “I’m sorry, the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” I look down at the piece of paper and try the number again. The same recording.
“Shit!” I yell. I kick a chair and it sails across the kitchen and into the living room.
I walk into my room. I walk out. I walk back in again. I stare in the mirror. My eyes are red; tears have surfaced but none are falling. Hands shaking. Anger and rage and a terrible fear that Henri is dead consume me. I squeeze my eyes shut and squeeze all the rage into the pit of my stomach. In a sudden burst I scream and open my eyes and thrust my hands towards the mirror and the glass shatters though I am ten feet away. I stand looking at it. Most of the mirror is still attached to the wall. What happened at Sarah’s was no fluke.
I look at the shards on the floor. I reach a hand out in front of me and while concentrating on one particular shard, I try to move it. My breathing is controlled, but all the fear and anger remain within me. Fear is too simple a word. Terror. That is what I feel.
The shard doesn’t move at first, but then after fifteen seconds it begins to shake. Slowly at first, then rapidly. And then I remember. Henri said that it’s usually emotions that trigger Legacies. Surely that is what is happening now. I strain to lift the shard. Beads of sweat stand out on my forehead. I concentrate with everything that I have and everything that I am despite all that is going on. It’s a struggle to breathe. Ever so slowly the shard begins to rise. One inch. Two inches. It is a foot above the floor, continuing up, my right arm extended and moving with it until the shard of glass is at eye level. I hold it there. If only Henri could see this, I think. And in a flash, through the excitement of my newly discovered happiness, panic and fear return. I look at the shard, at the way it reflects the wood-paneled wall looking old and brittle in the glass. Wood. Old and brittle. And then my eyes snap open wider than they ever have before in all of my life.
The Chest!
Henri had said it: “Only the two of us can open it together. Unless I die; then you can open it yourself.”
I Am Number Four ll-1 Page 14
