by Mark Frost
He’d never tried using his sensory Grid indoors before, and it felt clumsy at first. His image map bumped into walls all around and above him, disrupting the flow, but when he stopped trying so hard—remembering one of Jericho’s instructions—all barriers melted away and his senses pushed past them.
He slowly isolated down the source of this eerie watching feeling. It was emanating from somewhere nearby, on the same level he was on, and it showed up on his Grid as a lambent glow from behind a nearby wall. As he tuned into it and moved closer, he realized it was conveying more than just physical sensations to him; whatever it was had an emotional component as well.
Not fear based. Warm and welcoming.
Someone—something—is trying to say hello to me.
Locking on to that feeling, Will tracked it around a corner and down the passageway toward the source. It drew him to a closed door, halfway down the hall. A worn, wooden door, old-fashioned, rounded at the top. Didn’t even appear to have a lock on it.
The sensation drifting from inside beckoned him like a magnet. It felt so agreeable and benign that resisting it didn’t even occur to him. He tried the old steel rod handle and it turned with a squeak. He cracked open the door and peered inside.
A long, low room with a couple of dusty landscape paintings on the walls. A single overhead light burning over the only piece of furniture, at the far end—a tall, plain wooden cabinet. Large, clean, unadorned, fashioned from dark sturdy oak.
What was the name for a piece like this, a wardrobe?
It’s called an armoire.
Will walked toward it. The pleasant feelings grew stronger as he approached. Something inside the cabinet. He thought he could see a faint white glow around the edges of the doors.
I’m supposed to open it.
Will reached for the doors. They seemed to tremble as his hands got closer, as if eager to throw themselves open for him. He could feel them vibrating as his fingers closed around the knobs. They opened smoothly, with a slight creak.
An object sat on a shelf, halfway up, just below Will’s eye level. A flat, plain rectangular wooden box, about 12 X 18 inches. No labels or markings on it, the box looked beyond antique, weathered and scratched. Will couldn’t resist the temptation to take it into his hands. The wood felt warm to his touch, oiled, dark, and smooth. He undid the simple latch and opened it.
Inside, nestled into a fitted mold lined with wrinkled royal blue silk, rested a circular brass plate, six inches across, etched with complex patterns of straight and curved lines. An ornate configuration of aged and weathered brass discs and circles were arrayed and stacked on top of the larger plate. Some of them formed wheels, half-moons, and curlicues; others ended in sharp points. The round ones were notched, like gauges. Although they were currently locked in place, all these smaller parts appeared capable of independent movement. This was clearly some sort of ancient measuring instrument, but the entirety of the device appeared functional in ways that Will couldn’t begin to fathom.
It’s an astrolabe.
He didn’t know how the word came into his head. He couldn’t even remember thinking it. He knew it meant this thing had something to do with sailors and ancient navigation but that was as much as he could recall. He picked it up. The astrolabe felt superb in his hands, a perfect size and balance, weight and shape—he could imagine the powerful attachment some ship’s captain from long ago might feel toward an object his whole existence depended upon, but Will couldn’t comprehend how anyone could operate any instrument so intricate and complex.
Then something else surfaced below those impressions that made no sense at all. He had the feeling that the object itself seemed to like being held. That didn’t stand up to logical scrutiny. This thing was just cold metal in his hands, not a living organism—
He heard the scuff of a shoe on stone. Will turned. No one in the doorway behind him. But his eyes picked up slight movement: one of the paintings on the wall to his right had shifted.
His hackles rose again. Someone was watching him. He kept perfectly still and felt he could almost hear someone nearby breathing.
Will carefully placed the astrolabe back in the box. He was surprised to feel a deep twinge of regret as he let it slip from his hands. He closed the box, replaced it in the armoire, and silently closed the doors. He walked out of the room and shut the door behind him.
No one in the hallway. No visible door to any room on the right from where someone could have been watching.
But that didn’t mean no one was there.
Will sprinted away down the hall, turning on his speed, taking one turn after another through the twisting basement corridors for half a minute until he was absolutely certain that no one could have followed him.
If his eyes couldn’t find the security center, his Grid could. Will went halfway up the stairs, stopped short of the door, closed his eyes, and opened up his senses again.
As he directed the Grid through the rooms above, he picked up the energy trails of the household staff laboring throughout the house—vacuuming, ironing, changing linens, putting away dishes—but kept pressing on, looking for noticeable surges in power.
His perceptions shifted toward a cluster of energy on ground level in the wing of the house to his right, the one he’d already identified as the servants’ quarters. This was a lot more than human energy, electrical power in highly concentrated form. He silently opened the door and slipped into the house. Moving to his right, he couldn’t find a door that connected to where he felt the power coming from, but he caught a glimpse of the western wing through a rear window.
He closed his eyes again and quickly pinpointed the energetic glow. There. Right there. In a room on ground level. Accessible through a door on the outside.
Will walked to the nearest door leading to the grounds in back of the house, trying his best to appear like he was lost and looking for something. He opened the door and waited for an alarm to go off or security guards to come rushing in his direction. Neither happened, so he marched outside, stuck his hands in his pockets, and strolled toward the wall of the western wing. No patrolling guards, no dogs, no trip wires in sight. When he reached the wall, he moved along it until he reached a small steel-framed window next to another door.
Inside, Will saw the castle security center he’d picked up on the Grid. A midsized office with an array of at least twenty-five monitors and stacks of sophisticated electronics and computer towers set against a wall. One young beefy man in a blue blazer and tie sat at a desk in front of the monitors. An earpiece in one ear, a coiled wire disappearing down below his collar.
Will stared at the back of the man’s head and sent a thought-form his way: a clock with the hands spinning around.
The man looked up at a clock on the wall. Will pushed another picture at him: a lavish lunch buffet, loaded with delicious dishes, like something out of a commercial.
The man glanced around, put a hand on his ample stomach, and glanced at the clock again. Ten minutes to noon, not quite time for lunch. Will pushed pictures of a greasy cheeseburger and a pile of fries and a cold soda at him, rapid fire.
The guard’s willpower wavered, his sense of duty battling his sudden hunger. Will could practically hear his stomach growling. One more push shoved him over the edge: a slice of cherry pie à la mode.
The man stood and bolted for the exit. Will flattened himself against the wall behind the door as it flew open and the guard lumbered off toward the main house, breaking into a jog.
Will waited until the guard moved out of sight, then opened the door and entered. He scanned the monitors—images from all over the property, all of them surprisingly high-def, both inside and out. As he’d hoped, the interior of the tower room with all the boxes was not among them.
On one of the cameras he saw the hungry guard rush into the main house kitchen. The help had just finished setting up lunch, a
nd Will chuckled when he saw the guard attack the buffet like a ravenous dog.
Will noticed five monitors in a row featuring views from the five cameras hidden along the island’s northern shore, all of them slowly scanning from left to right at different intervals. He studied their pattern of movement, consulting his watch to time their sweeps along the beach, timing a brief pause when they were all turned away from the right side. He also noticed a switch on the console for infrared vision; whoever was monitoring this station would be able to see the entire northern beach just as well in the dark.
One person might be able to sneak on shore unnoticed, if they were both lucky and good, but five people crossing the lake on a boat carrying equipment? They could forget about a direct approach. He’d have to make some changes to their landing plan.
He spotted a more challenging problem on one of the other monitors: Another camera, in a fixed position, was focused directly on the wooden structure and hatch leading down to the tunnels. He also realized, in this closer angle, that the wooden hatch they’d encountered last year hadn’t just been reinforced but completely replaced by one made out of metal.
And the hatch had a big honking security lock on it, thick and steel-plated.
Will searched the rest of the office for a key that might open that lock. Spotting a square metallic cabinet on the wall near the door, he walked over to open it. Glancing out the small window next to it he saw that the security guard was heading back toward his post. Carrying two plates stacked high with food, the man was speed walking at an almost comic pace, trying not to spill any of his bounty.
Will dashed to the only other door in the room, one that led farther into the building. Locked. Just as the guard pushed open the outside door with his sizeable rear, Will leaped over and stepped behind it as the man backed into the room. Will grabbed the inside doorknob and held it open.
The guard set down his plates on the desk, humming a happy little “I’m about to stuff my face till it hurts” tune. Will leaned out and watched the guard lift a dripping roast beef sandwich the size of a softball, dip it in au jus, and gnaw into it. Will took a deep breath, centered himself, and pushed the first nonsensical image that came into his mind at him: A full-grown Indian elephant appeared on the closest monitor, standing around the corner of the castle’s west wing.
The guard looked up at the monitor, midbite, juice dribbling down his chin. He stopped chewing when he “saw” what was there and froze.
“What the hell … ,” he mumbled.
Will altered the image. The elephant raised its trunk and trumpeted. The guard “heard” it. The sandwich plopped onto the desk as he shot back in his chair, jumped up, and hurled himself outside, activating his comm system while he reached for the pistol holstered on his hip.
“I need backup,” he said into the microphone of his communications rig. “Animal on the western edge of the west wing.”
He never even noticed the outside door was still open. Will quietly eased it forward, stepped back, and opened the metallic cabinet.
Keys inside, on hooks. All shapes and sizes, some hanging in clusters. Row after orderly row, maybe a hundred of them. Printed labels fastened to the box below each hook, describing each key. His mind quickly tried to process what he was reading as he worked his way down, scanning row after row.
There, near the bottom right: Tunnel Entrance.
He wanted to keep looking, but the clock in his head said time was running out. He grabbed the small key ring hanging above Tunnel Entrance, shut the box, and jumped back outside, making sure the door closed behind him. He could hear voices around the corner to his right where he’d placed the “elephant” and knew that more guards would soon be on their way. Not enough time to get back inside through the door he’d originally used to leave the house.
Besides, it was opening right now, another guard exiting in response to the alert.
Will turned on his speed and headed for the woods. Once he was far enough in to gain cover, he stopped, turned, and waited to see if anyone had noticed him. He heard voices to his left and saw five guards who’d responded to the “elephant” call returning to the house. The heavyset guard who’d alerted them sheepishly brought up the rear. Once they passed, Will quick-stepped to the nearest door on the west wing and reentered the house.
A laundry facility. Half a dozen washers and dryers stacked against a wall, a few of them churning away. Tables with piles of folded sheets and towels next to a row of ironing boards. No one in the room.
Will moved quickly to an open inner door and listened. Hearing workers down the hall, he leaned out and saw them clustered around a window. Looking out at the security guards to see what the commotion was about.
Will hurried down a rambling hallway to his right, feeling his way back toward the center of the castle. He glanced at his watch: a few minutes after noon now. He needed to get to the kitchen before Clegg started looking for him. Emerging a few doors later, Will found himself back in a marbled hallway of the main residence. He followed that to its end and turned right through a swinging door, instinct telling him that was the way to the kitchen.
He had instead walked into an intimate private dining room, filled with antique furnishings, including a long, magnificent mahogany table. High ceilings, with a fireplace at one end and high, leaded windows. Two distinctive chandeliers rested over the table, heavy black iron with bulbs disguised as candles, with matching candle sconces on the wall.
He’d seen these fixtures before, and then he remembered where. This is the room in the photograph. Where the Knights had their dinner in 1937 with Henry Wallace.
On a cabinet straight ahead was what looked like a guest ledger. He walked over and was about to open it when he heard, “Looking for something, Mr. West?”
Will turned. Lemuel Clegg was standing in the doorway, looking stern, arms crossed. Will smiled broadly and crossed to him.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Will, falling back into character of brash, teenage idiot.
“Why is that?”
“Hello, starved? Lost so much weight up there I was about to eat my own foot. I tried to follow back the way you took me up there and got so totally lost.”
“Is that so. And how did you end up in the private residential area?”
“Honestly? I have no idea,” said Will. “Zigged when I should have zagged about twelve times. Tell me I didn’t miss lunch?”
“The kitchen is that way,” said Lemuel, angrily thrusting a finger at another door. “And if you’re unable to find your way in the future, I’ll assign someone to escort you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Clegg, but I’m good,” said Will, walking past him to the door.
“Don’t let it happen again,” said Lemuel.
“Mr. Haxley must so appreciate your sense of humor—”
“Get!”
After a quick lunch, Will returned to the tower room to discover a tall man standing across the room, his back to the door, looking at a folder he’d apparently taken from one of the boxes. The man heard the door close behind Will and turned.
Mr. Elliot. Haxley’s elderly friend from last night. Wearing expensive-looking black wool slacks, a white dress shirt buttoned to the neck, and a gray cashmere cardigan sweater. His finely wrinkled face widened into a toothy smile.
“You’ve discovered my secret,” said Elliot.
Will said nothing, worried that he’d been found out in some way.
“This tower is my favorite section of the house. The entire history of the estate is in these boxes. It’s all been sadly neglected for years.”
“Yeah, everything was in pretty rough shape,” said Will, moving toward him.
Elliot smiled again—beamed actually—as Will reached him, and Elliot patted him on the shoulder.
“I’m so delighted that Stan’s found the right person to put it all back in order.”
“I’m not sure why he’d think I’m the right person,” said Will. “I mean, this is a pretty big job, sir.”
“Oh, Stan is an excellent judge of character. I trust him to make the right decision about a task as important as this one,” said Elliot sincerely.
Will noticed that Elliot was holding the same folder that Will had looked through earlier, the one with the checks from the 1920s.
Strange … What were the chances of that? But Elliot made no effort to hide it from him, so he either didn’t know, didn’t care … or he wanted Will to see it.
“Have you had time to go through any of this material?” asked Elliot, opening the folder.
“No, sir. So far I’ve just arranged boxes,” said Will, straightening one with his foot.
“Perhaps you should organize them by year. Chronological order.”
Elliot smiled again, in a way that Will was starting to find unsettling. The man really threw him off balance. Why is this guy taking such an interest in all this, and in me?
“I take it you work with Mr. Haxley in some way, sir?” asked Will. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I’m an advisor to him, yes.”
“About business.”
“About many things,” said Elliot, looking down as he paged through the folder again. “Including business.”
“I wondered if you might be connected to the school in some way.”
“Not in any official capacity. Unofficially, I like to think of myself as its … amateur historian.”
Will looked around at the boxes. “I guess the history of the school must be pretty interesting.”
“History is one of my many interests,” he said, still without looking up. “The story of this school fascinates me. You might wonder why there’s so much material about the school, stored here in a private residence.”
