Sunday night, after dining from a half-dozen boxes of Chinese food, we gathered in the living room to report on what we’d learned. “First,” the professor said, “we’ll hear from Daniel.” He turned his attention to the boy, who actually looked up from his current game of Battleship Megadeath. “Daniel, have you seen anything odd since we’ve been in Florida? Any—whatever it is you see—that we should be aware of?”
Daniel narrowed his eyes as if thinking, then shook his head.
“Have you seen any of your invisible friends around us since we’ve been together on this trip?”
Daniel’s face brightened.
“Really? Around whom?”
Without hesitation, Daniel pointed to Tank, who grinned an aw, shucks grin before replying. “Good to know, Daniel.”
The professor lifted his gaze to the ceiling as if appealing for help, then continued. “What about Dr. Drummond?” he pressed. “Anything odd about him?”
“No,” Daniel said. “No duch. No anioł.”
When the professor looked to Brenda for an explanation, she blew out a breath. “Daniel has his own words, and I’m still learnin’ some of ’em. But these two I know. From what I can tell, a duch is bad. An anioł is good.”
“So . . . ?”
“So Dr. Drummond is not good, not bad.”
“Could Daniel come up with something more useful?”
Brenda’s brows rushed together. “You wanna back off? He’s a kid.”
“As were we all, once.” The professor folded his arms. “What about your research, Barnick? Have you been able to identify any members of The Gate? Any location? Mission statement? Anything besides what we’ve already seen on their website?”
“Whaddya think I am, a computer?” Brenda grimaced and pulled some notecards from her oversized purse. “I couldn’t find anything linking The Gate to the fungus, but I did find some interesting stuff about funguses.”
“That’s fungi,” the professor corrected. “One fungus, two fungi.”
“Whatever. Scientists used to think that fungi evolved from algae because they’re both green. But now they think that fungi are more closely related to animals. Fungi don’t make food through the sun like plants do; the stuff has a digestive system more like a human’s. I don’t get all the mumbo-jumbo about why that is—has to do with cells and a bunch of words I can’t even pronounce—but I think it might explain why The Gate wanted to use a fungus to do their dirty work.”
From the way the professor’s eyes widened, I knew he was pleasantly surprised by Brenda’s insight. “That is interesting, Barnick. What about you, Tank? Any progress?”
“Not really,” Tank said, his voice flat. “They do a good job of hiding. Remember when we met Sridhar at the Institute? We also met the director, Dr. Trenton, and Sridhar had heard Trenton acknowledge the school’s association with The Gate. But you won’t find that published anywhere. Last week, Mathis was babbling about The Gate when the professor and I found him in his lab, but he was infected with the fungus by then, so it wasn’t him talking, it was the . . . whatever you want to call it.”
“The collective,” the professor said. “A hive mentality. When many beings are controlled by a single consciousness.”
“Yeah,” Tank said. “I know it sounds crazy, but it makes sense once you’ve seen it in action. So I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you. I found lots of stuff about The Gate, but I can’t tell if it’s legit or just a bunch of speculation. Clearly, nobody wants to admit they belong to that outfit. Makes it easier to deny that the group even exists.”
“Which is also what I discovered.” I smiled at Tank, not wanting him to feel discouraged. “By the way, I thought I saw Sridhar at the funeral. Did anyone else see him, or were my eyes playing tricks on me?”
When no one answered, I sighed and moved on. “Chalk it up to my overactive imagination, I guess. Anyway, lots of people on blogs and conspiracy sites blame The Gate for everything from inflation to tsunamis, but no one can prove anything. So yes, The Gate is surrounded by mystery. But on the other hand, they have a website, a Twitter account, and a Pinterest page. All their social media accounts are group accounts, so it’s hard to know who’s actually posting tweets and blogs, and after a while the posts all sound the same—don’t be a slave to a god of any kind; be master of your own life through knowledge, which brings power. Illumination and personal deification—that’s pretty much the heart of their message.”
“So they’re a scapegoat,” the professor said, “for everything that goes wrong in the world?”
I shook my head. “They don’t take credit for the bad things—they’d probably say that we bring disasters on ourselves. But they always take credit for the good things.”
“Like what?” Brenda asked.
“Like the fact that though we have nuclear and hydrogen bombs, we’ve managed to avoid blowing up the planet,” I said. “They’d take credit for nations that sign peace accords. And humans who create art and music.”
Tank snorted. “Do they never realize that God is the ultimate artist? That He created a beautiful world? That His angels sang for joy when the earth was formed outta mud? That everything good comes from the creator of all, and we are only reflections of Him?”
“Whoa, Cowboy,” Brenda said. “Get outta the pulpit. We’re trying to stay steady here.”
Tank opened his mouth to say something else, then clapped it shut, but I could practically see steam coming out his ears.
“This is good information,” the professor said. “Tomorrow I’d like us to focus on the orb. Andi has been studying it, so maybe she’ll be ready to give us a report tomorrow.”
I lowered my gaze, a little embarrassed that I hadn’t been able to finish my work—I’d spent too much time with Dr. Drummond. I didn’t want to be the weak link.
“Andi,” the professor said, drawing everyone’s attention to my flaming face, “are you able to handle all this?”
“Of course.” I knew he was speaking out of concern, but I didn’t like the extra attention. “I’ll make a full report tomorrow.”
The professor looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Just get better.”
CHAPTER
6
I didn’t mean to fall asleep in my clothes, but after filling the required three pages in my notebook for Dr. Drummond, I lowered my head to the pillow and closed my eyes. When I awoke, bright sunlight streamed through the window, and Brenda was snoring softly in the twin bed across the room.
I must have been exhausted, because impromptu sleeping was foreign to my nature.
I changed out of my rumpled clothes, dashed into the bathroom and dragged a mascara brush across my lashes, then attempted to brush my hair. I glanced in the mirror and saw a pale woman with frizzy red hair staring back at me—the Tim Burton version of Raggedy Ann. But I couldn’t help what I looked like, and it wasn’t like we were planning to go anywhere.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, the professor had put on the coffee and brought in a huge box of doughnuts. “Wow,” I said, lifting the lid. “Guess we’re not counting calories this week.”
He was standing by the table with a document in his hand, and he waited to finish reading before he looked up and greeted me with a nod. “You could use a few extra calories,” he said. “And we’re really getting nowhere with all these clippings, right?”
“I think”—I plucked a glazed doughnut from the box, then grabbed a napkin—“we’re focusing too narrowly. Instead of spending all day reading about The Gate, maybe one of us should be searching for information on research with fungi, and someone else looking into mechanical orbs.”
“Mornin’.” Brenda shuffled into the kitchen in her pajamas and slippers, then grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter. “Going outside. If you solve the mysteries of the world, let me know.”
I waited until the front door clicked behind her. “You’ve gotta give her credit,” I told the professor. “She�
�s trying hard.”
He nodded. “Frankly, I’m surprised she’s done as well as she has. What is she down to now, two or three cigarettes a day?”
“Two, I think. She goes out first thing every morning, and right after dinner every night. She only smokes during the day if she’s unusually stressed . . . which I guess we’ve all been these last few days.”
The professor didn’t argue, but he did look up when Tank lumbered into the kitchen, his outstretched arms punctuating his expressive yawn. “Man,” he said, dropping his arms as he shook himself awake. “I slept like a rock. Daniel, too—the kid’s still in there sawing logs.”
For some reason, my inner alarms clanged. “You sure he’s okay?”
Tank gave me a reassuring smile. “He’s fine.”
I blew out a breath and moved to the coffeemaker. I couldn’t explain why I still felt on edge—my ordeal was over, and physically I was back to normal. But I kept experiencing crazy surges of panic, usually accompanied by a certainty that something had gone terribly wrong.
“You feelin’ okay?” Tank asked as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. “No nightmares or anything?”
There it was again—for no logical reason, Tank’s innocent question lifted the hair along my arms. What in the world was wrong with me?
“I’m good.” I gave Tank a quick smile and was on my way to the table when the front door opened. Brenda came in with her purse on her arm, but instead of a cigarette butt, she carried a piece of paper. Without a word she walked to the dining room table and dropped the paper next to the orb.
We all leaned in for a closer look. Without being told, I knew that something had come over Brenda as she had her morning smoke, and instead of pulling out a cigarette, she had pulled out paper and pen and begun to sketch. The ink had smeared in a few places, but I would have recognized that image if she’d drawn in crayon.
“What is that?” Tank looked from me to the professor, then he grinned at Brenda. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
She pointed to the bottom of her sketch, where she’d drawn leaping flames. “I don’t think fire is funny.”
The professor and I exchanged a puzzled glance, then I braced my hands on the back of the nearest chair. “Maybe we should have a brainstorming session,” I said, “about how our investigation could possibly involve a rubber Gumby.”
“Dumby? Who’s that?” Tank dropped into a chair at the head of the table, then pulled the box of doughnuts closer and set two glazed, two Boston creams, and a French crueller on a napkin.
Brenda rolled her eyes and sat next to me, eyeing Tank’s doughnut tower while she sipped her coffee.
“Gumby,” I said, “used to be a kid’s TV show, back in the sixties. I only know about it because Sabba has a DVD collection of old kids’ programs. He says he’s saving them for my kids because television today is too violent.”
“Gumby and his horse, Pokey,” the professor added, his voice vibrant with nostalgia, “were originally intended to persuade kids to read, but before long the little guy was having independent adventures and leaving the books behind. One of the first attempts at Claymation, I suppose. Rudimentary compared to today’s standards, but kids from the sixties enjoyed it. As you might imagine, a toy manufacturer licensed the image and sold millions of rubber replicas.”
“What I want to know”—Brenda tapped the sketch with the tip of a fingernail—“is why this image popped into my brain. Usually I get an impression that has something to do with a person or an object that ties into our investigation. I don’t get this. And I wasn’t even born when that show was on TV.”
I picked up the sketch and studied it more closely. I envisioned Gumby as being straight or slightly bent at the waist. In my memory he had large oval eyes, a triangle nose, a half-circle mouth, and hyperactive brows that communicated his emotions. But this Gumby, if that’s really what the image represented, was grotesquely twisted—his mouth appeared to be dripping from his rubber face, his nose was tilted, and his pupils had run into his eyes. And Brenda had drawn flames around his feet . . .
Tank pinned Brenda in a steely gaze. “Are you saying you saw Gumby in hell?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know what I saw, but it looked like this.” She jabbed the image again. “You know how my sight works—I see, but I don’t interpret. I don’t want to be wrong.”
“Okay.” I studied the image again. “So if this is what you saw, why do you think you saw it? After all, we haven’t exactly seen any Gumbys running down the street.”
“Lemme say it again—I don’t interpret. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m confused.”
“I’m confused most of the time,” Tank said, grinning at her. “But your pictures are always right on.”
“Anyone else have an idea?” I looked at the professor, who seemed distracted. His eyes were fixed on the orb, and I was pretty sure he was only half-following the conversation about Brenda’s sketch.
“Maybe”—Tank paused to lick sugar off his thumb—“maybe it’s a sign.”
“Of what?” I asked.
Tank shrugged. “I don’t know. But if we see that little rubber dude, we’ll know we should pay attention. Gumbo means something.”
“Gumby,” I corrected, “and you’re probably right.”
“Well, I’m done with this.” Brenda stood, cast a longing glance at the doughnuts, then went back to the coffee pot. “Can I suggest that we all get busy? Sittin’ around starin’ at doughnuts isn’t helping my cravings at all.”
“Right,” the professor said, pushing away from the table. “Let’s get to work.”
At lunch, Tank was destroying a mushroom and pineapple pizza when he blurted out the question everyone had been too discreet to ask last night: “By the way, Andi, how was your visit with the shrink yesterday?”
I met his concerned gaze as I took a seat at the dining room table. “Fine. I talked, he talked. He wants me to keep writing in my journal, and he wants to hypnotize me.”
Tank’s open expression slammed shut. “Not a good idea,” he said, his eyes hot. “That kind of stuff is dangerous.”
“Actually,” the professor said as he opened a box of spicy chicken wings, “therapeutic hypnosis is nothing like the sideshow theatrics you’re undoubtedly thinking of, Tank. Used properly, hypnosis is simply a state of focused concentration. While in a hypnotic trance, a subject is more open to helpful suggestions.”
Tank regarded the professor with narrowed eyes. “How can you be sure this doctor won’t hurt Andi? He might program her to murder people, or maybe he wants to take advantage of her—”
“Nonsense.” The professor waved Tank’s concern away. “Some people can’t even be hypnotized, and no one under hypnosis can be forced to do anything he or she wouldn’t ordinarily do. Andi would certainly be safe from any predacious doctor.”
“Unless she don’t want to be.” Brenda grinned at me. “You gotta admit, that man is fine. He wouldn’t have to use hypnosis to get some lovin’ from me.”
“I’m not in the market for love.” I shot an equal opportunity glare around the table. “I just want those voices out of my head—for good.” I looked at the professor, who had also been infected with the fungus. “Have you noticed anything odd about your thoughts? Have you heard any echoes of those voices?”
“No.” The professor gave me a sympathetic smile. “But I wasn’t infected nearly as long as you.”
“That’s it, then.” I grabbed a slice of pizza. “I have another appointment tomorrow, and I’m going to tell Drummond to start swinging his watch, or whatever he does to hypnotize people.”
“I second the motion,” the professor said.
“I third it,” Brenda added.
Tank growled. “My opinion may not matter much, but I’m against it.”
Daniel, who had been plucking the mushrooms from his pizza, lifted his hand, signaling his agreement with Tank.
I sighed. I would have liked to have unanimous supp
ort, but three-to-two was still a win.
After lunch, I went back to the dining room and opened the cardboard box on the floor. The orb lay beneath the dishtowel I’d thrown over it, so I grabbed it, dishcloth and all, and set it on the table. I found my tablet, my tape measure, and a pen, then pulled the dishtowel away from the orb . . . and gasped.
The orb had changed again. Instead of being silver or gold, the orb’s surface was covered with rows of trapezoids . . . and in each four-sided shape I saw the stage, the woman, and the basket from my recurrent nightmare.
My first instinct was to cover the orb and run. The thing knew too much. It was either reading my mind or it had invaded my dreams, but in either case, it was an intruder.
But maybe I only thought I was seeing those things. Maybe I was imprinting those little shapes on the orb; maybe someone else would see something different.
I glanced into the living room. Brenda had curled up on the couch, and Daniel was sitting on the floor playing Battleship Megadeath. Fortunately, we had convinced him not to target any of our ships during the day, so none of our phones erupted in sirens and horns while we were working. But occasionally we heard “MEGADEATH APPROACHING, CAPTAIN. DEFEND YOUR BATTLESHIP” over the sound of wailing sirens and knew that Daniel’s ship was in peril.
Fortunately, the more he played, the better he became. Which meant fewer interruptions for us.
I threw the dishtowel over the orb again. “Hey, guys. Will you come here a minute? I want to try a little experiment.”
Brenda and Daniel looked at me, then Brenda sighed and swung her legs to the floor. “Come on, kiddo,” she said. “It’s always good to take a break.”
They pulled out chairs, sat, and waited.
“I’m going to lift this cloth,” I told them, “and I want you to describe the orb.”
“Okay,” Brenda said. Daniel simply placed his arms on the table, then propped his chin on his hands.
“Okay—here goes.”
I yanked the cloth away in one quick motion. Instead the puzzlement and confusion I expected to see on their faces, I saw nothing but calm curiosity.
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