Then he found Ronnie Murso. He had a long narrow face, a delicate jawline, and straight blond hair as white as straw. His thin-lipped smile looked taut and a little forced. He had intelligent hazel eyes, a hint of vulnerability around them. He looked sensitive, clearly shy. An emo-geek most likely, a bit on the scrawny side. Below each photo sat a small block of text. Self-profiles. Ronnie’s read:
Embrace paradox. Look for patterns.
Beethoven holds the key but doesn’t know it yet.
Hiding inside your Shangri-la you might find the Gates of Hell.
Strange. This was the second mention of Shangri-la since he’d left home. And, wait, Dad also used that same phrase in his last message: “the gates of hell.” To Ronnie’s point: How many mentions in a short period of time constituted a pattern?
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#26: ONCE IS AN ANOMALY. TWICE IS A COINCIDENCE. THREE TIMES IS A PATTERN.
AND AS WE KNOW …
There is no such thing as coincidence.
The mattress buzzed, startling him. Nando’s cell phone. Will retrieved it, then stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
“They’re at Oxnard Airport, man,” said Nando when Will answered. “They drove straight down here from your house. Pulled right onto the runway. They’re loading up a private jet with the stuff from the house.”
“Where are you?” asked Will.
“Parked across the street, watching through the fence. It’s a twin-engine jet … looks like it seats seven or eight?”
“Can you see the tail numbers?”
A moment later Nando said, “N-four-niner-seven-T-F.”
“Who’s on board?” asked Will.
“The lady and that dude with the beard …”
Mom and Dad.
“And the bald dude just went inside with ’em. They’re closing up the stairs. Rest of the Caps are back in the cars. Driving away, like in formation.”
“Don’t let ’em see you,” said Will.
“They won’t, bro. Taxis are invisible, especially near airports. The plane’s moving now, ready for takeoff. You want me to stick with the Caps?”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Nando—”
“Get real, man. I can haul Mr. and Mrs. Richie Rich and their potty-mouthed kids to LAX any day. You kidding me? Any hack in the world would kill for a thrill like this.”
“I just don’t know how to thank you,” said Will.
“Give your pops a hug, man. We’re good—Hey, here come the Caps on the frontage road. Gotta jam. Later.”
Will called National Directory Assistance looking for private air charter companies that offered noncommercial flights out of Oxnard. On the third call, he got a hit on the tail numbers. The secretary who answered told him their company owned that plane: a Bombardier Challenger 600 twin-engine jet.
OceanofPDF.com
#34: ACT AS IF YOU’RE IN CHARGE, AND PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE YOU.
Will altered his voice to the flat institutional twang civil servants used when they wanted to let civilians know they meant business.
“This is Deputy Johnson, Ventura County sheriff,” said Will. “We have reason to believe persons of interest may be on that aircraft. Do you have a passenger list?”
“No, sir.” She sounded eager to cooperate.
“Was the aircraft engaged by Mr. or Mrs. Jordan West?” He heard papers shuffle.
“Yes. Mrs. West paid for it. With a credit card.”
His parents didn’t own credit cards. Everything he’d ever seen them buy they paid for with personal checks or cash.
“Was that the name on the credit card?” he asked.
“Yes. Jordan West.”
“And what is their destination, ma’am?”
“They’re flying to Phoenix. Scheduled to return tomorrow.”
Phoenix. So his misdirection had worked. With a little luck, they’d go hunting for him in Mexico, too.
“And what was the charge for this flight?”
“Round trip from here to Phoenix is twelve thousand seven hundred twenty dollars,” she said.
That put to rest any doubt his parents hadn’t paid for this. They sweated out bills every month. They simply didn’t have that kind of money. Will thanked the woman and said he’d call back with any further questions.
He went into the bedroom. His focus started to fade, the two most stressful days of his life dragging him down. His head ached dully along with half a dozen other body parts. Will climbed into bed. The mattress was firm but yielding, the pillow soft and cool.
Will looked at the photo of his parents on the bedside table, then picked up Dad’s rules and browsed through them. Some were in his handwriting, but most were in Dad’s, the way they’d collected them over the years. On the last page, Will noticed one he hadn’t seen before, in Dad’s handwriting, with no number attached. He must have put it there recently.
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OPEN ALL DOORS, AND AWAKEN.
Why did that sound familiar? Will tried to track the connection but his eyes closed and he fell asleep with the book on his chest.
Climbing up through the walls of Greenwood Hall, the bug never varied its path or pace. Soon after Will fell asleep, a creature the size of a cockroach squeezed through a crack between the floor and baseboard of Will’s room. Flat and armored like a beetle, the creature was studded with coarse black hairs. An unusual number of eyes bulged from its head. The creature trudged across the room, up a desk leg, and onto the surface to Will’s tablet. The bug’s forearms probed the sides until a port opened in the black seamless metal. The bug wriggled inside and disappeared.
Moments later, the computer turned on. Legs unfolded in back and slowly lifted the machine. The numinous black screen shimmered to life. Legs inching around in almost undetectable increments, the machine shifted until the screen faced the bed.
And it watched Will sleep.
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There was no doubt this was the boy I’d seen in the dream. I recognized him instantly. Did he recognize me? I couldn’t tell. But I knew he had secrets, maybe even more than I did.
He would start asking questions soon. No telling how that would turn out. One thing I knew for sure: Questions could be even more dangerous than secrets.
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STUDENT-CITIZENS
The black retro phone on Will’s desk rang with a musical but insistent trill. Will fumbled out of bed to the receiver.
“Hello?” he mumbled.
“Good morning, Mr. West. It’s seven a.m. on Thursday, November ninth. Welcome to your first full day at the Center.”
A female voice, pleasant, chatty, and cheerful. The squashed and hammered vowels of the upper Midwest.
“Thank you,” said Will. “Who is this?”
He tried to pull the phone toward the bed, but its heavy-duty cloth cord ran only a few feet from the wall and wouldn’t budge when he yanked on it.
“Dr. Robbins requested we give you a wake-up call today. And remind you, Mr. West, that you have an appointment with her at nine o’clock sharp—”
“I know, I know—”
“—at Nordby Hall. That’s the main administration building. Room two forty-one. Would’ja like directions or maybe a map?”
“No, thanks, I know where it is.”
“Great! It’s gonna be a real nice day. Sunny, with light winds, and a high of thirty-eight degrees—”