The Paladin Prophecy

DAN MCBRIDE

They landed in Denver forty minutes later without further incident. No one said a word as they shuffled off, grateful to be back on earth. Will’s next flight was delayed an hour by the storm. That gave him time to cover his tracks.

He found another airline with a nearly empty midnight flight to Phoenix. He handed the tired ticket agent his boarding pass to Chicago and pushed a mind picture at her—of a pass for the Phoenix flight. Then another of his name on her computer’s passenger list. She checked him in. He wandered away.

He did the same thing in reverse before boarding his flight to Chicago: the agent voided his name from the manifest. “Pushing pictures” was getting easier; this time he felt tired, but not drained. Once in his seat, Will put on the dark glasses and scanned the plane. All clear. With any luck, whoever was tracking him would think he’d taken the flight to Phoenix.

Within minutes, beyond exhausted, Will surrendered to a thick, dreamless sleep. He didn’t stir for hours, until he felt the landing gear drop as they descended into Chicago.

Central standard time: 5:45 a.m. Will entered an empty O’Hare terminal. At baggage claim, an older white-haired man held up a message board: MR. WEST spelled in moveable type. He spotted Will, gave a wave, and started forward.

“Is that you, Will?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dan McBride, from the Center. I’m a colleague of Dr. Robbins. A genuine pleasure to meet you.”

McBride locked eyes in a friendly, benevolent way. He stood six feet tall, upright and spry. His ruddy face looked as weathered and lined as that of a man in his seventies, but he moved with the energy of someone half that age. His handshake crushed Will’s hand; he squeezed back defensively to avoid wincing.

“May I take your bag? And are you expecting any others?”

“No, sir, that’s it,” said Will, handing over his bag.

“We can move right along, then. The car’s just outside.”

McBride gestured to the doors and took the lead. He walked with a noticeable limp—a knee or hip problem—but powered through it as if he considered physical pain a minor inconvenience. Will heard the tart, astringent flavors of New England in his clipped and proper phrasing.

“How are you feeling?” asked McBride, as if he really wanted to know. “Rough night?”

“Does it show?”

“I’ll wager most of your fellow passengers were business travelers, rushing to another meeting. At the risk of sounding like an academic fuddy-duddy, Will, the red-eye has always symbolized for me how worship of money makes us behave with utter contempt for our own humanity.”

Will stared at him.

“That may have sounded a bit obtuse after a sleepless night on a plane.”

“I understood you,” said Will. “I just don’t hear people talk like that much.”

“Now, Will, plenty of folks on the West Coast speak perfectly good English.”

“Yeah, but it’d be more like, ‘The red-eye, dude—that blows chunks.’ ”

McBride laughed agreeably. It was still dark outside as they exited. A wall of cold walloped Will, bypassing his thin cotton sweats as if they weren’t there. He inhaled sharply and his nostrils froze.

“We’re in the grip of an early cold snap,” said McBride. “You’re not used to this sort of thing in California either.”

“Is it always like this?”

“No, no, no. For the next five months it’s usually much worse.”

“What’s the temperature?”

“As we drove in this morning, a balmy twelve degrees.”

Will couldn’t believe it: “Twelve?”

“Walk quickly; it’ll get the blood flowing.”

Will felt paralyzed. He’d never been in temperatures below thirty-six degrees before. He had trouble making his lips move. “I’m sorry, people actually live in weather like this?”

“I will now be the first, and far from the last, to recite one of my favorite canards about midwestern winters: They build character. Fiddlesticks. But, adaptable creatures that we are, you’ll acclimate with a speed that will amaze you.”

A blue Ford Flex stood at the curb, the Center’s coat of arms on its side. An immense man in a fur coat and matching hat popped open the rear gate and came toward them like a building on wheels. He wore a big, irresistible smile. His wide, flat nose seemed to cover half his face. He took Will’s bag and swung it into the back.

“Say hello to Eloni, Will,” said McBride.

“Nice to meet you,” said Will.

Eloni smiled broadly and cradled Will’s hand in both of his, which felt like the world’s largest catcher’s mitt. Thankfully, he didn’t squeeze. Will’s bones would have been crushed to pulp.

“Brother, your hand’s an ice cube. I got the heater running. Get in before you freeze. Never been in cold like this, huh?”

“Not even close.”

Eloni chuckled, a rumble deep in his chest. Moving nimbly for such a huge man, he opened the rear door and gestured Will inside. “I know how you feel, Mr. West,” said Eloni.

“Eloni is from American Samoa,” said McBride.

“Closest to snow I’d ever seen was a snow cone,” said Eloni.

Will hopped into the SUV’s toasty interior. The seat felt plush and heated. Will pressed himself into its embrace and tried to stop shivering. Eloni moved to the driver’s seat, while McBride climbed in beside Will.

“It’s just coming up on six-fifteen, Will. We have a two-and-a-half-hour drive ahead. I thought we’d have breakfast on the way. Eloni, a stop at Popski’s is in order.”

McBride had a nice habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke, then clapping them once to punctuate things, as if in constant prospect of improved circumstances.

“Popski’s it is, sir.”

Eloni guided them into the flow of early-morning traffic. The cabin felt as snug, safe, and still as a bank vault. As the heated seat returned feeling to his body, Will felt his troubles melt away. McBride’s gracious hospitality gave him the same comfort of unqualified support he’d felt from Dr. Robbins.

Which boded well, Will thought, for where he was headed. No regrets, so far, about his decision.

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