They turned off the freeway, following signs to the airport. Nando took a no-frills Nokia cell phone and charger from the console and tossed them back to him.
“Use that one to make any calls for now,” he said.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to take your phone—”
“Don’t worry. It’s not exactly mine, know what I’m saying? It’s got a camera and you can text using the number pad.”
When they turned into the airport, Will took out his wallet.
“Put that away,” said Nando. “Your money’s no good with me.”
“But I got to pay you, Nando. What are you going to tell your boss?”
“How’s he ever gonna know? I got you covered, esse. Gonna find me a fare heading back the other way and charge ’em double.”
They laughed again. Nando slid to the curb in front of the Spanish-style terminal a few minutes before eight. The side door slid open.
Will hesitated. “Why’d you help me, Nando?” he asked. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”
Nando turned to face him, his big brown eyes wide and solemn. “Glad you asked me that,” he said. “When I was out back, right when that chopper flew over? I heard this voice in my head. Like I went into some kind of trance and this voice mixed in with the sound of the blades. It told me the next person who walked through my door was going to be this really important person. Like in human history. That they needed my help and I better step up big-time. Or it could mean the end of the world.”
Will gulped. “Really?”
“No, I’m just messing with you, holmes!” said Nando. “Who you think you are, LeBron James or something? Ain’t you heard? He’s the Chosen One. I got’chu good, though, right?”
“Yeah, you got me.”
Nando’s smile vanished instantly. “I am totally serious, cabrón. I heard a voice.”
“Okay, you’re freaking me out now.”
“But I wouldn’t have listened to it if I didn’t like you, man. You got an honest face.” They shook hands and Nando gave him a business card: NANDO GUTIERREZ, OJAI TAXI COMPANY. “You call me when you get there. Lemme know you and your pops got hooked up, ’kay? Promise me now. I wanna hear from you.”
“You will.”
“Vaya con Dios, my friend,” said Nando.
“And you tell Lucia and Angelita for me that they should be very proud of their dad,” said Will as he climbed out.
“Thank you,” said Nando. “Wait, I don’t think—I never told you my daughters’ names, man.”
“No?” said Will as he waved and walked away.
“Okay, that’s a little strange, man. How’d you know that? Hey, how’d you know that?”
Will just shrugged. He actually didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He shouldered his duffel and headed for the terminal.
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#28: LET PEOPLE UNDERESTIMATE YOU. THAT WAY THEY’LL NEVER KNOW FOR SURE WHAT YOU’RE CAPABLE OF.
Two minutes after Will went inside and Nando drove away, a black sedan pulled up to the curb.
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DAVE
As Dr. Robbins had promised, Will’s reservation to Denver was in the system at the ticket counter. She’d also booked a connecting flight to Chicago, on another airline, that left Denver about midnight. Will showed the agent his passport. She handed over his boarding passes without any questions.
He stopped at a gift shop before security and bought a cheap black carry-on, a gray sweatshirt, and a blank baseball cap. In the men’s room, he changed into the sweatshirt, took everything out of his duffel, and packed it into the new bag. He had just enough room left to stuff the duffel inside before zipping the new bag shut. He pulled on the cap, checked himself in the mirror, and walked back out.
The terminal was nearly deserted; he was booked on one of the last flights out. Will showed his pass and ID to a weary female TSA guard at the security entrance. She glanced at him, stamped his pass, and waved him between a set of ropes that led around a corner. Will had only been on a plane twice and not since before 9/11, when he was a little kid. Whenever his family moved, they always traveled by car.
A stack of plastic trays waited beside a long stainless-steel table that fed a conveyor belt through the X-ray machine. The businessman ahead of him slipped off his loafers, watch, and belt, dumped them in a tray, and laid his coat on top. He set his carry-on, cell phone, and laptop in a second tray and nudged them onto the conveyor. The tag on his carry-on read JONATHAN LEVIN.
Will stepped to the table and copied the man’s moves. Levin waited behind a white line in front of a metal detector. He handed his pass to the TSA guard manning that post, a scrawny redneck straight out of a country-western song, with squinty eyes and tattooed ropy forearms. He looked from the pass to the man a few times, taking his job way too seriously, then handed back the pass and waved Levin through.
Will looked behind him. Two men in black caps and jackets were walking toward security, looking around. They hadn’t spotted him yet.
Will tugged down his cap and stepped to the white line.
Maybe it’s a random check and they don’t know I’m here. Maybe they can’t follow me once I get through security.
As his trays entered the X-ray machine, he remembered he’d left his Swiss Army knife and the metallic bird in his bag. Both would start a conversation he couldn’t afford to have. He looked at the young female attendant watching the X-ray monitor.
Trust your training.
When Will was little, younger than five, his parents discovered that he had an unusual and startling ability—he could “push pictures” at people from his mind straight into theirs. His mom first realized it when images began popping into her mind—a toy, a drink, a cookie. Ultimately, she realized Will was trying to tell her what he wanted.
Since then, his parents had worked with him to develop the skill, as a game at first, then more seriously. They had also taught him never to use his power on anyone, because it was ethically wrong and because it violated Rule #3: DON’T DRAW ATTENTION TO YOURSELF.
Unless he was in extreme danger. Like right now.
Will felt like his heart was going to beat right out of his chest as he stared hard at the girl behind the monitor. He’d never tried to push an image into anyone’s head other than his parents’. The girl stopped the belt with Will’s bags in the heart of the machine and leaned in for a closer look.
A toothbrush. An alarm clock.
Will concentrated, silent and trembling, and pushed those pictures at her. He felt them land. Toothbrush and alarm clock replaced knife and bird.
A moment later, the attendant leaned back and advanced the belt. Will’s trays appeared at the far end. Relieved, he turned and came face to face with the redneck TSA guard, who was eyeing him coldly. He asked for Will’s pass. Will gave it to him. The man examined it, then looked at him sharply. The hairs on Will’s neck bristled.
The guard walked to the other side of the detector and waved Will forward. He stepped through without setting off any alarms. The guard pointed him to the right, toward an area screened and divided by portable partitions.
“Wait over there,” said the guard.
Will had just been kicked up to another level of scrutiny. Between the time that he had checked in and now, the people chasing him must have gotten his name onto a watch list. The guard held Will’s boarding pass as if it were a live grenade and walked into the maze of partitions. He showed it to a heavyset African American woman in a blue blazer. She glanced briefly at Will, her sharp eyes veiled with practiced indifference, then nodded the redneck toward a nearby computer.