Silverwood Page 12

  This is extremely weird, Christopher thinks. Not what I expected—it’s like looking at everything through a veil.

  Christopher is alive, but he’s not… himself. His thoughts feel jumbled. Sometimes he can see, sometimes he can’t.

  He has to think, hard, and keep his mind intact until he can escape this Tromindox. What happened to the vial of his brother’s blood? Man, that would come in handy right now. A lot of good that vial did him. They just snapped it off his neck and tossed it on the floor. Christopher loves his brother, but sometimes Gabriel’s ideas don’t really pan out.

  That’s right, think about Gabriel— and everyone else I care about. I must stay grounded, connected to reality until I can get out. Back in agent training, they said to picture someone’s face and remember every detail. They said grab on to the last person you saw and don’t let go.

  Christopher thinks about his brother’s face. He must not let that image out of his mind, even for a second. But he is so, so sleepy…

  RECORDING

  Hi dad, again, it’s Helen.

  I’m sitting on a rock in the desert. We’re taking a break from driving. It’s been an interesting couple of days.

  We got followed by some guy on a motorcycle. We thought he was chasing us down, but it turned out he was just delivering a portal. Mom says she has two guesses who sent it, but she’s not saying who. We took a look at the information on it, and it’s got a map of hotels all the way from here to Brokeneck.

  Mom told us this story in the car about how she chased down a Tromindox by riding on top of a subway train. I’m not sure I believe that one. I’m pretty sure I would notice if there was some lady with white-blonde hair battling a Tromindox on top of my train while I was going to work.

  But I suppose, mom does whatever she has to do to hunt down those beasts. Since it’s her job, and it’s how she makes a living. So maybe the train incident did happen.

  At least now she talks to us about what she does. That’s an improvement.

  I’m still confused about how mom can tell which Tromindox to hunt down. She gets a message, and she goes. She’s not supposed to be bounty hunting now, too dangerous now that we’ve been followed. But she says we need the extra cash, so she’s risking it. Every so often she gets a message, and she takes off for a little while.

  I haven’t had any dreams since we’ve been on the road. I haven’t had any Tromindox show up when I was awake either, for that matter.

  Henry, though, he’s drawing some weird things. He drew a picture of his friend Rosie, where she’s in the ocean. And here’s a really strange one: he drew a picture of Rosie drawing a picture of him. And in the drawing of him, he’s in the ocean too. What is that supposed to mean?

  Mom’s signaling it’s time to hit the road again, so I’ve gotta go.

  Bye dad, I hope we see you soon. We miss you.

  END RECORDING

  The Chairman smooths his hair back, and takes a deep breath. He looks out the floor-to-ceiling window across a landscape of immaculate white high-rise buildings. He can just see a strip of dark green forest beyond the perimeter of the city.

  He punches a button on a device resting on the equally immaculate glass surface of his desk.

  The screen spits out some static, and then all he can see is a pattern that looks like asphalt. A road? Why is he looking at a road?

  Now he hears unintelligible noises, and the view goes blurry. Finally, Gabriel’s less-than-friendly face fills the screen.

  “Oh look, it’s you,” says Gabriel. No point in pleasantries this time.

  “Hello Mr. Silverwood,” the Chairman says. “Do you have the portals?”

  “I have one of them,” Gabriel says.

  The Chairman furrows his brow. This is going to be a very long process if Mr. Silverwood is only going to acquire the portals one at a time.

  “Oh, and I have The Book of the Future, too,” Gabriel adds.

  Well, that’s better. That’s progress.

  “Where are the rest of the portals, then?” the Chairman asks.

  “Don’t know,” Gabriel says.

  “You don’t know,” the Chairman repeats. The Silverwoods can be so tiresome, especially this one. He takes a deep, sharp, annoyed breath. “Any ideas?”

  “Well, I’m guessing that they are in the same place as my brother Christopher,” Gabriel says, whose face grows very dark as he leans in very close to the screen. “You set us up, Mister Magistrate. Those Tromindox knew we were coming. They made it far too easy to find them. And those portals? You can go find your stupid portals yourself. See, I have another job now. My job is to find my family, and get my brother back, before anyone gets any more brilliant ideas. So I’m a little busy. If you want your stuff, you might want to put on your working pants and get out here with some of your henchmen and do something about it yourself.”

  “Where is your brother?” the Chairman asks.

  “So now you try to give the impression that you have no idea.” Gabriel spits out his words. “You had this plan all worked out, didn’t you. What a nice, convenient way to get your dirty work done, and dispose of some of us Silverwoods while you’re at it. Elegant plan. And I, I should have figured it out. It’s my fault for not figuring it out.”

  The Chairman sits very still and says nothing.

  “Gabriel, I have no idea what is going on with your brother,” he says, finally.

  “That is garbage!” Gabriel yells. “You—people, in your suits and your buildings—you think you can just push a few buttons and everything will be fine. You want to control the world using your little screens. Well I’m afraid that this is reality, and the reality is, I have to go get my brother, find my wife and my children. Now. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Gabriel drops the device to the ground and crushes it under the heel of his boot.

  The Chairman stares blankly as static returns to his screen. He straightens his tie, and turns to go. The doorway, however, is blocked by several Tromindox and a smallish man in a ratty bowler hat.

  “Hello, Chairman, or should I say, former Chairman,” Doctor Julius Dinkle says. “I’ve come to relieve you of your duties.”

  The bells tinkle on the office door at the EZ Lodge, temporarily drowning out the noise of the television in the back room. The man at the counter puts down his newspaper, takes one look at Kate over his glasses and says, “Ah, Ms. Silverwood. Looks like you’re already checked in.” He reaches out to hand her a room key.

  “You must be mistaken,” Kate says. We just got here. We haven’t checked in. We don’t have a room.”

  “Well somebody is checked in under the name of Silverwood, then,” says the man. “Family reunion maybe? They said to me, watch for someone of your description. White hair. Two kids. Big ridiculous car with a trailer… ” He leans over to peer at the trailer-less station wagon. “I guess the trailer part wasn’t quite right… ”

  “There used to be a trailer. Who told you all this?”

  Kate is annoyed to be followed so closely. She is used to moving around on her own, covering her tracks—but she realizes that to make this journey she will need allies. Helen and Henry will need allies, too. That’s something they will have to learn. There are people looking out for them, always, and in return they look out for others. This is the way of the Silverwoods.

  “Look lady, I don’t know,” the man at the desk says. “It was some digital woman. Changed her face a dozen times while she was here. Left you this.” He holds out a device with a screen and a button on the side. “Here’s your room key. Number 127.”

  Henry and Helen are looking through a huge display of colorful brochures describing all the wonderful attractions in the area—helicopter tours, rides in jeeps, a rock in the shape of an elephant where people have mystical visions…

  Kate takes the key, and the device. She motions to Helen and Henry to follow her back out to the car.

  “Mom?” Henry says, waving a brochure. “There’s a rock in the shape
of an elephant near here.”

  “Great. When we get a bunch of time for sightseeing, which will be never, we’ll go see it. Okay?” Kate regrets the snappish voice coming out of her. The map delivered by the motorcyclist, the hotel arrangements being made in advance, the feeling of being followed, and the loss of the trailer carrying practically everything they owned, weighs on her. She feels brittle and angry. But Kate knows none of this is Helen or Henry’s doing; she has once again dragged them into a dangerous unknown. Time to pull it together.

  Kate turns to face her kids and takes a deep breath. “Look,” she says, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Let’s just clean up and get something to eat. Okay?”

  “Okay mom,” Helen says. Then she adds, “Sorry about the trailer.” It was spectacular to watch the thing go flying into a canyon, though. Helen’s not going to express this opinion out loud. But it was.

  The room is on the ground floor, and the key rattles in the lock as if the mechanism really does nothing at all to secure the door. Kate finally gets the knob to turn and pushes the door open with her foot.

  The three of them confront a wall of bricks, painted a sickly white color. The opposite wall, by way of contrast, is covered in dark wood paneling. The beds look like they have invisible boulders weighing them down in the middle. The burnt-orange bedspreads feature fringe around the edges, just reaching the floor and presumably hiding whatever disgusting things might be found underneath. A small reproduction of a painting of a sailboat—interesting choice of imagery in the desert—hangs askew near a brass lamp screwed into the paneling. This room embodies everything that a cheap roadside hotel stands for.

  Kate, Helen, Henry and their bags bump through the doorway. The sun is setting, and the neon sign outside changes the color of the curtains every few seconds. Pink, red, blue. Pink again.

  “Well, this is certainly a full-service trip; people bringing us maps, checking us into hotels before we get here,” Kate says. She sits down on the edge of a bed, which responds with high-pitched squeaking noises.

  “I’m gonna go down and check out the pool,” Helen says. She feels a strong urge to get away from the wood paneling and painted bricks.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Kate says.

  “I’m going,” Helen says. “Henry, you want to come with me?”

  Henry is already face down on the orange bedspread, unconscious.

  “You keep your eyes open, Helen, and know the route back here,” Kate says. “Don’t speak to anyone. If you see anything unusual, I want you to come back immediately. Do you hear me?”

  Helen has already gone out the door.

  The pool at night glows with blue underwater lights. Helen can smell chlorine as she pulls open the waist-high gate plastered with familiar signs warning that there’s “No Lifeguard On Duty, All Children Under 14 Must Be Accompanied…” The neon sign out front, which seems to cast light into every corner of the hotel, alters the color of the pool surface every few seconds from pink to blue. Somewhere nearby a soda machine wakes up and starts humming loudly. Helen clicks the gate shut behind her.

  She plunks down on a white plastic lounge chair and puts her feet up. Taking a deep breath, she turns her eyes up toward the roof of the motel, wondering how to get up there. Maybe there’s a staircase somewhere. This would be a good moment for some quality roof time. For now, the pool will have to do.

  An old gentleman appears at the gate wearing a white terry bathrobe. He smiles at Helen as he enters the pool area and heads to the other end to prepare for a swim. When he removes his robe he reveals that he has the exact same body type as a frog; round in the middle with skinny arms and legs sticking out. He lays down his robe on another white lounge chair, installs a pair of goggles on his face and lowers himself into the water. He then commences very slowly and deliberately swimming back and forth, back and forth, the ripples in the water growing with each lap. The light from the neon sign sparkles now on the surface as he glides along. The water laps up against the sides of the pool.

  Eventually the man pauses at the end nearest to Helen, and his head pops up over the edge. Pink neon light illuminates the top of his bald-head.

  “Can’t sleep?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t tried yet,” Helen answers.

  The man smiles and nods. “I see,” he says. “Don’t want to see too much of that wood paneling then, I guess? Me neither. ‘Course with eyes closed in slumber you won’t see it anyway, right? It’s the rude awakening—that’s the problem. Good morning Mister Wood Paneling.” He throws up his hands with a splash to show imagined surprise at being confronted with the awful decor.

  Helen smiles. “I guess that’s it,” she says. It’s not often she runs into a conversationalist at this time of night. The last bit of sunlight has slipped past the horizon.

  The dark, or perhaps the unexpected visitor, makes Helen feel like she ought to go back to the room. Maybe it was her mother’s reluctance to have her out here in the first place. Whatever the reason, Helen has seen enough of the pool for now.

  “Well, I’ve got to go,” Helen says. “Have a nice rest of your swim.”

  “Thanks,” says the old man. He turns to push off for another lap, but stops. “And, have a safe trip,” he adds. “You seem like a young person with a lot on her mind.”

  Safe trip? “Okay,” Helen says. “You travel safely too.”

  “Thanks,” the man says, “And remember: just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

  Helen looks confused. “What?”

  “It’s a little bit of wisdom I like to share with young people,” the man says. “I’m old, you’re young, at my stage of life I ought to share my hard-won wisdom, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve had a lot of experiences, learned a lot of things the hard way. And that little nugget, that’s a keeper. ‘Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.’ It’s a good old standby, that one.”

  “Um, okay,” Helen nods. “Thanks. Really.”

  “No problem,” the old man says with a smile. He pushes off the side of the pool for his next lap. She can hear him paddling along behind her as she leaves the pool area and the gate clicks shut. The soda machine has turned off and now it’s very still outside. The sky has turned black, and stars pop out like pin pricks.

  Helen walks back into room 127 just in time to hear these exact words:

  “Oh, and get rid of that ridiculous station wagon. Could you possibly make yourself any easier to spot? You can probably see that thing from space.”

  Kate stares at the screen on the device in her hand. That car has been with the family for, well, ever since Kate and Gabriel came forward in time with Helen. Fourteen years ago.

  As if reading Kate’s thoughts, the voice adds: “If you want to finally get your family all in one place, Kate, you’ll lose that car and quick, regardless of any sentimental feelings you might have. Right now things are going in the wrong direction and your extreme visibility is not helping any.”

  “Fine, I’ll get rid of the car,” Kate says. “It’s not like we need it to pull the stupid trailer now, anyway. You’d need a crane for that.”

  “We’ll deal with the trailer at a later time, Kate. I’m terribly sorry about that mishap. By the way, you should know that the Chairman sends his regards. He was responsible for the delivery you received on the road. At my request, of course.”

  “The Chairman sent that creep after us? The one with the motorcycle? The one that left the portal on my car’s hood?” Kate asks.

  “Yes, that was from the Chairman. He’s…interested. Trying to keep tabs on you. I hear they lost a bunch of portals, and The Book of the Future, too. There was some sort of mishap between a Council member—Dinkle, I think his name is—and a very assertive Tromindox. So the Chairman is meddling even more than usual. He is looking in on things.”

  “The last thing I need is any kind of involvement with the Council,” Kate says.

  The device lets out an awful static noise an
d the signal starts to break up. “Kate,” the voice says in between noises, “you need to get here as soon as you can. We need you. I’m trying to maintain order until you can get here, but things are—getting worse. Progressing, and not in a good direction. Please hurry.”

  “Okay, we’ll do our best,” Kate says. “First thing we do is, we’ll get a faster car.” She smiles. But the screen has gone blank. Channel closed.

  “Rosie, you didn’t eat your dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Rosie’s mom heaves a sigh and looks down at her daughter, who is lying stomach-down on the floor. Rosie is situated in front of the television, paper strewn in an arc on the floor around her. A tiny cat creeps toward her on one side, crunching paper under its paws. Rosie’s dark, curly hair tumbles into her face. She tucks it behind an ear.

  It’s a hot evening in the city, so the window of their small apartment stands wide open to let in as much air—and street noise—as possible.

  On each sheet of paper Rosie has drawn a nearly identical baseball field, with players stationed at the various bases and in the outfield and a scoreboard stretching across the background.

  Rosie draws the center fielder, arms up above his head, the ball descending into his glove. The announcer on the television says, “And he flies out to center field… ”

  Next she draws another player sliding into second, and a couple of minutes later the announcer says, “And, he’s stolen second! A good solid throw from the catcher but not in time.”

  Rosie’s drawing session proceeds in this way for another inning or so, as she practices her skills. She completes a drawing of an ad for the all-new redesigned convertible car two minutes before it airs. She sketches out the wild pattern and bold stripe on the shirt and tie worn by the announcer who will come on for the post-game show. The baseball game concludes, the shirt and tie appear on the screen as if on cue.