“What’s going to happen, ma’am?” asked the sergeant.
“I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Brody, “but it’s happening now.” She gestured at the woods.
We all turned, and I saw the glow farther back in the trees—a colorful, highly variegated flux stream glancing off of branches and leaves. It drew nearer, and then Mr. Brody appeared. I recognized him instantly, still wearing his funeral suit and carrying his violin case. “Greetings, everyone,” he said in his thick accent as he stepped from between the nearest trees.
And just behind him was someone else.
“Carl!” Alan cried, as he saw his brother.
Carl was dressed in the same T-shirt and blue jeans I’d last seen him in. Things had changed a little with his flux stream, though. It was still largely white, but there were a few faint strands of colored flakes—green and yellow, like plants coming up through old snow.
Alan rushed forward and Carl caught him and lifted him easily in a bear hug. “Hey, little brother,” he said.
Mrs. Brody approached her husband, and they embraced and spoke softly in a language I don’t know. The tenderness of it seemed to express something that doesn’t exist in English, or that I had never heard, at least.
Awestruck, the sergeant approached Mr. Brody. “Excuse me sir,” he said, “I’m Sergeant Ray Johnson. I’d just like to shake your hand, if I may, sir. And I want you to know that whatever I can do for you here, I’m at your disposal.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Sergeant,” said Mr. Brody. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Carl Dunn.” He turned to Carl, who was standing at his elbow.
“Hello,” said Carl. He sounded nervous. And he looked, somehow, smaller than normal. Like a scared kid.
“Carl has been the victim of a terrible experiment,” said Mr. Brody, “which I’m afraid I’m indirectly responsible for.”
“You? I doubt that, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Yet it’s true,” said Mr. Brody. He paused. “Did you catch him, Sergeant? Tell me that, first. Is Abe Møller in custody?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” Sergeant Johnson replied. “My agents and the local authorities are closing in on the location Henry reported. I have high hopes—higher than I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll content myself with your hopes, then,” said Mr. Brody. “As to my responsibility for this predicament, Sergeant, allow me to explain. Early in our partnership, when I still mistakenly trusted him, I confided a theory to my friend Abraham—a notion that the subtle form could outlast the physical, given certain preparations. The nature of these preparations I thankfully did not reveal to him.”
“And you were correct, sir,” said the sergeant. “You’ve done it! It’s a powerful discovery.”
Mr. Brody shook his head. “I’d always thought never to test my idea. It seemed an awful kind of knowledge, for it depends on certain very rare subtle ingredients. To what lengths would certain people go to obtain them? Or to prevent others from having them? I did not wish to unleash such a thing upon the world. But when push came to shove, as they say . . .” He turned to his wife. “Maria,” he said, “I couldn’t bear to leave you.”
“I knew you were still there, Joseph,” said Mrs. Brody. “But to live like this, invisible, bodiless . . .”
Mr. Brody smiled. “I wish I’d consulted you first,” he said. “It has been no sort of existence, these past days. I’ve played for you on this violin that you so kindly buried with me. But you cannot hear it.” He turned back to the sergeant. “Abraham searches for this secret. He’s been stalking it for decades, and my survival now has cemented his curiosity. He came here to observe me, perhaps to study me, and to begin his own experiments. Carl was his unwitting subject. I fear Carl and I are two examples of the same thing.”
“Carl . . . ?” said Alan.
Carl tried to smile, but he couldn’t. His eyes were full of fear.
“Did Møller say anything, to any of you, about this experiment?” Mr. Brody asked us. “Did he tell you whether Carl was alive or dead? What he had done to him?”
“He told me something,” I said. “He said that he . . . that he didn’t know. He said we’d interrupted everything.”
“Oh, Carl!” said Alan, and he threw himself into his brother’s arms. Carl squeezed him back. I could tell he was really scared, what with all of us talking about whether he was dead or not.
Mr. Brody gestured at the sergeant’s square satchel. “Do you have with you a field telephone?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then we’re faced with a conundrum,” said Mr. Brody. “Whether or not we should request a remote reset for Carl.”
“We could do it,” said the sergeant, “but . . .”
“If he is still alive somewhere,” said Mr. Brody, “perhaps unconscious, or in some kind of prolonged sleep, then he will return to himself and awaken. He will be saved.”
“But if his body is dead . . .” noted the sergeant. “If he’s like you, Mr. Brody, and we return him to his body . . .”
“He will perish,” Mr. Brody finished for him. “That is the choice.” He turned to Carl. “To stay here, like this, Carl—a veritable ghost. Or to return. To take the chance on living if you can, knowing that the alternative is death.”
Carl looked at Mr. Brody with a quiet intensity, as if the kindly man’s gaze was a lifeline. “I . . . I don’t know,” he said. His voice quaked, and my heart went out to him. It was too awful. I glanced at my friends and saw that they were all speechless. Carl stared into the woods. “I met him in a dream,” he said, “or I thought it was.” He glanced up at the mostly white streams that were pulsing from him. “He said the colors are like people invading my brain. So you put up walls. Keep them out. It made me stronger at first. But then . . . then I was alone. And now I’ve even lost myself.”
Mr. Brody looked to his wife, who stood next to him, and in his eyes was a question—one he asked her without speaking.
Mrs. Brody nodded. “I know you must, Joseph,” she told him.
“Sergeant,” said Mr. Brody, “I would like to take a remote reset from you.”
“You, sir? But your body is dead. If we reset you to it . . .”
“I understand fully, Sergeant Johnson,” said Mr. Brody. “I’m doing it not for myself, but for Carl.” He turned toward Carl and Alan, who stood together next to me. “Carl, I’ll go ahead of you. And if it’s to be your death tonight, I’ll be waiting for you when you cross over. You and I will go together, to whatever follows this life.”
Carl stared at him. I could tell Mr. Brody’s offer stunned him. Really, it was the most generous thing I’d ever heard of—dying just to keep another person company if they had to die too. Finally Carl said, “Thank you, sir.” And he stood a little straighter. I could tell he had the courage now to try to find his life again.
“Oh, Joseph,” said Mrs. Brody. She put one hand tenderly on her husband’s cheek. No sooner had they reunited than they would part once more.
Mr. Brody knelt and opened his violin case. He lifted the instrument, which glowed amber in the moonlight. He began to play. His opening long note harmonized with the branches that scraped in the distance, and it went up from there, ascending into a beautiful melody. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard before. We all listened, and the whole graveyard seemed awake to it. I remembered those forgotten graves Mrs. Brody had told us about—the Jewish graves in Poland, where she was from. The music was so beautiful, I thought Mr. Brody must be playing for those people, too.
The last note died away. Mr. Brody placed the violin on the ground. He nodded to the sergeant, who took his case from his shoulder, unbuttoned the top flap, and reached in to retrieve the phone. He dialed. Soon, a quiet voice spoke over the earpiece. I couldn’t hear every word, but I recognized the recording, asking if the caller needed a remote reset. To dial 1.
Mr. Brody turned to his wife, and they held each other.
Then he took the receiver from S
ergeant Johnson. “I have nothing to fear,” he said. “I know my friends will never leave me.”
A noise erupted from the earpiece, like hundreds of people applauding.
The receiver fell to the ground.
Mr. Brody was gone, as if he’d never been there at all.
I looked directly behind, at the new grave where the mounded flowers lay. For the first time since that grave had been dug, there was a whole man in it. I felt lucky to have known him.
“Goodbye, my Joseph,” Mrs. Brody whispered.
Then Carl knelt and picked up the receiver. “I thought I was going to live forever,” he said quietly. “I thought I was . . . that I was the good guy.”
I hadn’t ever taken much time to consider Carl’s perspective on all that had happened, and so it startled me to hear him say this. This bully, who had terrorized every kid in the county and given me an undeserved black eye, thought he was the good guy. But it made sense. Airman Crusader thought he was a good guy. So did Abe Møller.
“Carl, are you sure . . . ?” said Alan. “Maybe you could just stay here, like this.”
Carl shook his head. “There’s a chance . . .” he began, but he couldn’t finish. Suddenly, he started to cry. He just burst out like he’d been holding it back and then the dam failed. Gulping sobs came out of him, shaking his whole body. He was absolutely terrified. But he was going to go through with it. He held the receiver to his ear.
The sergeant dialed. I heard the woman’s voice come on the line, the recording tinny in the earpiece.
“I love you, Carl,” said Alan.
“I love you, little brother,” Carl replied.
The applause sounded. I was looking right at him when it happened. One moment he was standing there, and the next he wasn’t. There was no flash of light, or sound, or anything. The receiver fell to the ground.
The campsite was perfectly still. Off in the forest behind us, the branches creaked. A mixture of moon and star shadows glowed on the ground. I looked at Helen, who’s usually the first to snap out of shock over something. She was silent.
In the end, it was not one of us who broke the stillness. It was something else. An unexpected sound—a distant, muffled voice nearby. From Mr. Brody’s grave.
We all turned, and I saw something then that I think I will never see again in my life.
Right where the mound of flowers was piled, a sudden disturbance knocked a few of them to lower ground. And there, stark in the moonlight, was a human hand, grasping desperately. I recognized those fingers—had seen them up close as they came at my face only a few days ago. They were Carl’s.
Alan cried out and rushed forward, but there was nothing he could do. In his subtle form, he could touch nothing.
The hands clawed at the earth as at the edge of a cliff. The arms lunged out to the elbows, scattering the blooms. Then Carl’s head and shoulders emerged, shuddering into the night. Both of him were there, one right inside the other—his subtle form and his physical form together at last.
He cried as he struggled up from the earth, gasping, finally rolling up onto the dirt to lay exhausted, his chest heaving.
We stood around him, powerless. I found myself holding hands with Nicki and Mrs. Brody, and they held hands with Helen and Sergeant Johnson, who both linked arms with Alan so that we formed a ring.
Carl was at the center, in his T-shirt and blue jeans. He had no shoes on, and every inch of him was caked in dirt. He lay there, breathing in gusts and crying. Slowly, though, his breathing became more shallow, and he calmed down.
Then he sat up and listened intently to the night. “Are you here?” he whispered. There was no reply—or none that he could perceive. He choked and coughed, and dirt and spit splashed from his muddy lips. He put his hands on his knees and slowly pushed himself to his feet. He took a hesitant step forward, then another. Our invisible circle parted to let him through.
“I’m going . . .” he said. He took another step. “I’m going . . . to be different.” His voice cracked. “No more,” he said. “No more . . .” His path brought him to the edge of the graveyard, and he limped on, past the gate toward the road.
We stood together, still holding hands, listening to Carl’s retreating footsteps and the slow drone of the forest. From overhead, the stars shone on the empty dirt, strewn with blossoms.
I swallowed hard and turned to Nicki. Her subtle face was lit by the gentlest moonlight.
“Nicki,” I said.
She turned to me, her eyes shining. “What is it, Henry?” she asked.
“Would you, that is . . . um, would you want to, um . . . go to the Fall Formal with me?”
She smiled. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said.
Then, to my right, Helen said, “Alan, you’re taking me, too, okay?”
“Okay,” said Alan, wiping tears from his cheeks. He smiled. “I’d like that.”
THIS YEAR’S FALL FORMAL THEME was “Making Dreams a Reality,” and everyone was supposed to dress up like a character from a fairy tale.
My friends and I planned to do one better.
The afternoon beforehand, Helen and I dressed up—not as fairy tale people, but just as ourselves. I put on a dark blue suit with a red tie. Helen wore a dark blue sleeveless dress. (Yes, we both wore dark blue because we are twins.)
“You two look wonderful,” said Mom, and Dad nodded his agreement.
While we were putting on the finishing touches in the downstairs bathroom, a knock sounded at the front door. None of us were expecting a visitor, and Dad went out, thinking it was probably a salesman. But then he didn’t come back. Eventually I said, “Is Dad still out front? Who’s he talking to?”
Mom went to see. She didn’t come back either.
Finally, Helen and I investigated.
The conversation happening in the kitchen was wrapping up as we entered. We were both surprised to see Joe Chen, Nicki’s father.
Joe was a short man with thinning hair. He was just stepping out through the screen door as we entered, and my dad was saying, “Thanks again, Joe.”
“Yes, thank you so much,” said Mom.
“Oh, hello, Henry, Helen,” said Mr. Chen, pausing as he held open the screen door. “Well, you’re both looking very grown-up.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. I hadn’t met Nicki’s dad many times, and I wanted to make a good impression. I was glad I was wearing a suit.
“Well, see you all soon,” said Mr. Chen, and he stepped the rest of the way out the door and walked to his truck.
As soon as he was gone, Mom and Dad turned to each other and shared an astonished look.
“What is it?” I said.
“What happened?” said Helen.
Dad turned to us. “That was your friend Nicki’s father,” he said.
“We know that,” said Helen.
“There’s a job opening at Bell Telephone,” said Dad. “And he . . . recommended me for it. I’ll interview on Monday.”
“Wow, that’s great!” I said.
“Yes,” said Dad, shaking his head as if he could hardly believe it.
I stood there recalling the night at Mrs. Brody’s house when I told Nicki why I’d been forbidden to see her. I figured she must have told her dad. And instead of getting angry . . . he’d decided to help.
Helen and I left home on our bikes around sunset, and we did not pedal toward school, as we’d told Mom and Dad we would. We went in the opposite direction, out the highway to South Half, and followed the bumpy lane to the Brody mansion.
Alan and Nicki were already there. Nicki was wearing a pink dress with spaghetti straps. I can’t describe it any more than that, because there was no way I could get up the guts to look closer.
Alan was dressed like me, in a suit. His was slate gray, and he wore a black tie. His shoes, like mine, were shiny. We’d rented them from the same place.
Mrs. Brody was there too, though she wasn’t dressed up.
And one other person, who I hadn’t e
xpected—Sergeant Johnson.
Needless to say, we were all excited to see him.
“Sergeant, did you catch him?” said Helen, immediately keen to know.
“It’s nice to see you too,” he replied.
“Let’s sit and enjoy some chamomile tea,” said Mrs. Brody. Leading the way, she soon seated us around the dining table with steaming cups in our hands—well, not soon. Now that she was in her physical body, Mrs. Brody had returned to her extremely slow way of doing things. We all lent a hand with cups, tray, and teapot.
“My young friends,” said the sergeant as he placed his cup of tea on the table, “I want to thank you all for the important role you’ve played in recent events. Without you, we would never have known that Abe Møller was here. Without you . . . we never would have captured him.” He smiled.
“You did it!” said Helen. She banged the table triumphantly with both hands.
“Abe Møller is in custody,” the sergeant continued, “and awaiting trial for more than three decades of crimes, including the most recent ones committed in Farro.” He paused. “I can’t tell you how happy I am. I can think of no way to adequately express my gratitude, but I have brought a small token from my department.” He opened a case he had with him, and retrieved a stack of papers. He passed them out, one sheet to each of us. They were official recommendations from NFTSA, endorsed by the director of the department as well as by the sergeant.
It was weird to get something like that—something so tangible, after such an intangible adventure.
“Henry,” said Sergeant Johnson, “you’ve got an odd expression on your face. Is something troubling you?”
“Well, I guess it’s just, you know . . . we didn’t get to see him captured. It’s like a book with a missing chapter.”
“Like not getting to see Airman Crusader face down the centipede king?” said the sergeant, with a wink.
“You’ve read Airman Crusader?” I said, surprised.
“Sure,” said the sergeant. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re terrible books in some ways. But they’re exciting.” He paused. “We aren’t cutting off any heads here, Henry. The rule of law demands due process in the courts. And as bad as he is, Abe Møller is still a man. His rights mustn’t be stripped from him. Tell me, would you really want it any other way?”
The Trap Page 14