“Of the helicopter.”
The screen filled with the hazy washed-out colors of ancient Kodachrome. A dynamic captured moment: An airfield, full of movement, a couple of helicopters lifting off and another in the air, closer to the camera, tilting in for a landing. A tropical jungle in the background framed the asphalt landing strip. An explosion bloomed above the palm trees.
A credit line along the bottom margin of the photo read The Battle for Pleiku, Vietnam/New York Times, September 14, 1969.
In the foreground, a soldier ran toward the landing chopper, his back to the camera. A tall man with big, broad shoulders, wearing fatigues and a worn leather flight jacket. Three round patches were sewn onto the back.
The first had a red kangaroo with the words SPECIAL FORCES below it. Beside that was the helmeted head of a knight and the words LONG-RANGE RECONNAISSANCE.
In the third patch were the silhouette of a helicopter and the words ANZAC/VIETNAM. Below that were the same call letters that Will had seen on Dave’s flight jacket: ATD39Z.
The man’s right arm was raised high in the air. It looked like he was hailing or signaling urgently to the pilot of the chopper just above him.
Holding up all five fingers.
That’s five.
In the caves, Dave never had a chance to say that before the wendigo took him. Was he saying it here, after the fact? Will’s heart leaped at the idea.
His eyes shot to the two dice sitting on his desk. The dots were glowing. As Will watched, the dice lifted off the surface and spun slowly … until a three and a two were facing him.
“That’s five,” whispered Will. “And it’s good to be alive.”
For the first time since leaving home, he believed it.
Will looked back at the photo. “In case I don’t see you again,” he said, “thanks for everything, mate.”
Will’s syn-app asked, “Did you know this person in the photo, Will?”
“I sure did.”
“Would you like me to find out anything else about him for you?”
Will thought about it. “Yes,” he said. “See if you can find a woman named Nancy Hughes. She’s from Santa Monica. If she’s still alive, she’d be in her early sixties. All I know is that she served as an ensign in the Navy Nurse Corps during Vietnam in 1969.”
“I’ll get right on it,” said his syn-app.
Will caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at his book of rules, lying open on the bed. Had he imagined it or had a page just turned by itself? Will walked over and his eye went to the middle of the page:
OceanofPDF.com
#25: WHAT YOU’RE TOLD TO BELIEVE ISN’T IMPORTANT: IT’S WHAT YOU
CHOOSE
TO BELIEVE. IT’S NOT THE INK AND PAPER THAT MATTER, BUT THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE PEN.
And here’s what I choose to believe, thought Will. The one answer I couldn’t tell my roommates about: Dave said the Never-Was wanted me dead because I’m an Initiate. And they somehow realized it even before the Hierarchy did.
“I’m an Initiate now,” Will whispered. “Deal with it.”
If that’s why the Caps are afraid of me, I’m going to give them damn good reason to be. If the shag-nasties from the Never-Was think they can bust in here and take our planet from us, they’re going to have to go through me. I’m going to stop them, for my parents, Dave, and my friends. And if anyone else feels like helping me, like Coach Jericho, well, who knows, maybe I’m not even the only Initiate around here.
A soft bell sounded from his tablet. His syn-app appeared inside the photo on the screen, standing next to the still figure of Dave.
“An email just arrived from Nando,” the double said. “It’s a video file.”
“Open it, please,” said Will.
The photo dissolved into a video file. A moment later he saw Nando, speaking into his cell phone camera in an intense whisper. “Wills, I found something you gotta see.”
Nando moved the camera to an object sitting on a table: the black doctor’s bag he’d retrieved from Will’s house in Ojai. He moved in on the pair of worn initials embossed in gold below the handle: H. G.
“The bag was empty but I found something in the lining. Take a look.”
Nando opened the bag and moved the camera inside to a small label, sewn into the interior fabric of the bag. The label read THIS BAG BELONGS TO.
A name was on the blank line, block-printed in old, faded ink: DR. HUGH GREENWOOD.
Will froze the image and stared at it, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. The black phone on the desk rang, jolting him. He picked up on the second ring. “Hello.”
“Will, the headmaster would like to see you,” said an operator. “In his office, at Stone House.”
* * *
Rourke shook Will’s hand and asked him to take a seat on one of the heavy leather sofas in his inner office. Coach Jericho, already there when Will arrived, sat across from him. Rourke stayed on his feet in front of the roaring fireplace and talked him through it, calm and clear.
The ten captured members of the Knights of Charlemagne had all been expelled and were being held by state police on charges of kidnapping, accessory to and conspiracy to commit kidnapping, and attempted murder. The same fate awaited any other Knights they subsequently found, like Todd Hodak. Rourke said he had already called for a special assembly of the entire school to explain all this and to halt the spread of the rumors that would inevitably follow.
“Will, it seems clear to me,” said Rourke, “that in your haste to respond to these outrages, you gave no thought to the consequences of your actions. Most of which were shockingly reckless.”
Will glanced at Jericho, who gave nothing away. Will’s eyes went to the portrait on the wall of the school’s founder and first headmaster, Thomas Greenwood, staring down at him, solemn, stern, and wise.
Rourke sat on the edge of the table in front of Will. “They were also selfless, valiant, and almost unimaginably brave,” he said. “You’ve suffered a loss that by any civilized measure is impossible to calculate. How you respond now, and in the months to come, may set the course for the rest of your life.” Rourke gestured at the portrait on the wall. “Dr. Greenwood always used to say that it’s not the ink and paper that matter, but the hand that holds the pen.”
Will’s eyes opened wide. Rule #25. Word for word.
Rourke lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Will, I checked on that officer who questioned you at the airport in Madison. The FAA has no record of ‘Agent O’Brian.’ Tell me, had you ever see that man before?”
“He’s one of the men who chased me in California,” said Will.
“I thought so,” said Rourke, and glanced at Jericho. “Until we know the exact nature of what’s going on, I want you to observe a strict curfew: in your quarters by nine, without exception, every night. I’m putting Coach Jericho in charge of your security. You’ll be safe here. I make you this promise: No harm will come to you.”
Rourke’s eyes held him with such kindness, Will had to look away.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Rourke put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “There are things in this world more dreadful than you know. Things a young man your age should never have to face—certainly not alone. But we have two families in life. The one we’re born with that shares our blood. Another we meet along the way that’s willing to give its blood for us.”
Will looked up at both of them.
“You have found those people here,” said Rourke.
Coach Jericho held out a small leather pouch. Will took it from him and opened it. A small figure of a falcon, carved from dark rock, fell into his hand.
“You let me know if you have any more dreams,” said Jericho.