The Paladin Prophecy

THE ACCIDENT

He insisted they take him there. When they resisted, he raised his voice, just once, to let them know it was nonnegotiable. They left an hour before dawn, in the school’s helicopter, lifting off from the roof of the medical center. Will sat in back between Dr. Robbins and Coach Jericho. Headmaster Rourke, they’d told him, had gone up ahead to meet with authorities.

They touched down on the tarmac in Madison a few minutes after six, as the sky turned light gray in the east. Headmaster Rourke and Dan McBride were waiting beside a large black SUV driven by Eloni. They climbed in and followed two Wisconsin state patrol cars, flashing their light bars, for a mile to the west. When they parked near the site and climbed out, Headmaster Rourke put his arm gently but firmly around Will’s shoulder and quietly talked him through it.

The pilot had radioed air traffic control that they’d lost power just after beginning their descent. The storm severely limited visibility. There had been hope they could coast to a landing but the landing gear clipped some treetops well short of the runway. The plane tumbled and crashed and then caught fire.

There had been four people on board, including the two-man crew. No survivors.

As they walked toward the woods, Will saw firefighters and rescue teams wrapping up. Investigators were setting up lights focused on a charred twisted mass among burned evergreens at the end of a long debris field.

One section of the fuselage and tail remained intact. On its side was the writing Will had come here expecting to find: N497TF. A Bombardier Challenger 600. The same private twin-engine passenger jet his parents had rented in Oxnard three days earlier.

Will had gone cold inside when Dr. Robbins told him the news. He’d felt that way all night, and seeing this for himself didn’t change it; Will still felt nothing, numb.

Rourke explained there were some officials in the terminal who had asked to speak with him, but that if he didn’t feel up to it, he could postpone it to another day.

“Let’s get it over with,” said Will.

They met in a conference room at Dane County Regional Airport, in the general aviation offices. Headmaster Rourke insisted on staying with Will. Two troopers manned the door outside. Two suits waited inside, local detectives.

They made polite attempts at expressing sympathy. They reported that efforts to identify the passengers were under way and they were hoping he could help. They showed Will the blackened remnant of a wallet and a partially destroyed California driver’s license in a plastic bag and asked him if he recognized the photo.

“My father,” said Will. “Jordan West.”

They showed him a scorched woman’s leather handbag. Will recognized it as one that belonged to his mother, Belinda West. They asked if it was true, as had been reported to them, that his parents had been flying in to visit him at his new school.

“Yes,” he said.

They asked Will if he knew the name of his family’s dentist back in California. He said they hadn’t yet found one in Ojai to his knowledge. He realized they were looking for dental X-rays to identify the bodies.

Their interview was winding down when a man in a black suit entered. Will felt his blood run cold when he took off his hat.

It was the Bald Man. Lyle’s Mr. Hobbes.

He showed a badge, identifying him as Inspector Dan O’Brian from the Federal Aviation Administration, then addressed Will. “I’ve been tracking your parents for the last three days,” he said. His voice was cold, almost robotic. “When was the last time you spoke to them?”

Will stared him right in the eye. “Two or three days ago.”

“Did they tell you they planned to rent a private jet for this trip?”

“No.”

“Had they ever rented a private jet before?” asked Mr. Hobbes.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Hobbes stepped closer; he was big and wiry, much bigger than he’d looked from a distance. He had dark, dead eyes and gleaming white teeth. Will couldn’t read him, but he remembered this and it helped him:

He doesn’t know that I know who he is.

“Can you explain why they went looking for you in Phoenix if they knew you were here in Wisconsin?” asked Hobbes.

Will glanced at Rourke, who stepped to his defense. “Sir, you may have a job to do, but this young man just lost his parents.”

Hobbes never took his lifeless black eyes off Will. “The Wests chartered that jet last Wednesday in Oxnard. They flew to Phoenix and spent the night searching YMCAs and youth centers. Instead of returning to Oxnard the next day, they took off without filing a flight plan or notifying the owner. The plane disappeared from the FAA’s grid for the next two and a half days.”

Rourke looked at Will, who shook his head, mystified.

“The day before they chartered the jet, Mr. West set off an explosive device that destroyed a hotel room registered to him in San Francisco. He fled the scene before he could be questioned. That night, Mr. West’s offices at the University of California at Santa Barbara were broken into; files and valuable equipment, including two computers, were stolen. Mr. West remains the prime suspect—”

“Why would he steal his own computers?” asked Will.

“Two days ago,” the man said, talking over him, “a house rented by the Wests in Ojai, California, for the last four months burned to the ground under circumstances that triggered an arson investigation—”

“Will, did you know about this?” asked Rourke.

“No, sir.”

Hobbes took out a pair of handcuffs. “An impressive crime spree. The theft of a private airplane is no ordinary Class One felony; it’s the kind that attracts the interest of Homeland Security.” Hobbes smiled for the first time, but not with his eyes. “I’m taking Mr. West into custody for questioning. Social Services is waiting outside. Come with me.”

The sun crested the horizon, flooding the room with bright morning light. Through the window, Will saw a black SUV parked outside with four men in black caps waiting beside it. Hobbes pulled Will to his feet and prepared to cuff him.

Rourke grabbed the man’s wrist. “Take your hands off him,” he said.

Hobbes scowled. “I’m a federal officer—”

“And I’m his legal guardian,” said Rourke, raising his voice. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Eloni and Coach Jericho burst into the room, flanked by two Wisconsin state troopers, who made it clear they were ready to back Rourke’s play. The other detectives showed no interest in interfering.

“Do we have a problem?” asked Rourke.

Rourke put on his cowboy hat. Eloni and Jericho stepped closer to Hobbes. The man’s eyes burned hot. For a moment Will thought he might yell to the Black Caps and try to take him by force. But he didn’t.

Will shook Hobbes off and stepped next to Rourke, who put a hand on Will’s shoulder and guided him toward the door. Will followed but stopped at the door, turned, and slipped on Dave’s sunglasses.

A nimbus of light flared around Hobbes the Bald Man … and beneath his flesh Will saw a freakish armature of solid bone covering his entire head and neck, with overlapping scales as thick as armor plating.

Will’s numbed indifference fell away, and a blind fury for everything he’d been through, everything his parents had endured, ripped through him. Without Will’s even directing it, his anger coalesced into the shape of a war hammer and Will sent it scudding toward the man’s alabaster skull.

And if you can hear me, thought Will, that’s for my parents, you ugly son of a bitch!

Hobbes gasped as his head snapped back, hit by the invisible blow. Blood trickled from his nose and ear.

Will turned and followed Rourke out of the room. Eloni, Jericho, and the troopers fell into step around them, a protective phalanx that cleared the hall as they exited the building.

Will spoke quietly to Eloni when they stepped outside. “Sorry I ditched out on you, man.”

“S’okay, Will,” said Eloni softly. “For Miss Springer, I’d’ve done the same.”

“Mr. Rourke?” asked Will as they crossed the parking lot. “Are you really my legal guardian?”

“We’ll look into that, Will,” said Rourke, then winked. “But it didn’t hurt to let him think so.”

Within minutes, they were back in the Center’s helicopter, soaring above snow-covered forests and hills, a bright sun rising in a clear blue morning sky. Cerulean blue. Will noticed that the pilot was another Samoan from the Center. Rourke rode next to him. Will sat in back with Dr. Robbins, Mr. McBride, and Coach Jericho.

“What day is it?” asked Will, feeling shell-shocked.

“Sunday,” said McBride.

Coach Jericho laid his good hand on Will’s shoulder. Dr. Robbins took Will’s right hand between hers. Will caught a glimpse of the crash site—a vivid black scar in the white fields below—as they banked up and away.

If they were on that plane, I’ve lost my parents. I’ve probably lost Dave, too. He put his hand in his pocket and found the black dice. He had nothing else to hold on to.

Always and forever, Will. Always and more than anything.

“What should I do?” asked Will, to no one in particular. “I don’t know … what am I supposed to do?”

Will’s grief rose up with tidal force, all his anger and terror and grief washing out of him in racking, gut-wrenching sobs.

“It’s all right, Will,” said Robbins. “It’s all right.”

But it wasn’t all right. No one said another word until they touched down forty-five minutes later on a parking lot, near a flat, busy stretch of interstate. A cadre of state troopers had cleared out their landing area. Will was confused as they climbed out, until he looked over and saw the red neon sign. Rourke put on his hat, nodded at Dan McBride, and put an arm around Will’s shoulder.

“You need a good meal, Will,” said Rourke kindly. “As strange as it sounds, you have to eat at a time like this.”

They were at Popski’s.

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