We make paper covers for the Sanskrit books to keep them protected and to hide them from prying eyes, and then load them in the very bottom of Justine’s backpack. I’m a little nervous about letting them out of my sight, but I also know this is the only way.
Just as I finish getting my things packed, Mr. Papers comes out of the corner. He’s holding an origami version of what looks to be Uncle Li, lying in the middle of this big beautiful lotus blossom. It’s his finest work yet, and his saddest. Walking slowly over to my bag he removes my spiral notepad and then rips the back cover off. Justine and I are both waiting to see what he’ll do with this piece of cardboard. After gingerly pulling off the shreds from where it was released from the spiral coil, he sets the piece flat and begins folding. A few moments in, I see what he’s making: a box to protect his creation. Once the box is constructed, he puts the lotus and Uncle Li inside it and then sets it in his carrier. Apparently he has plans for it.
We decide that the safest way for her to get around will be public transportation—the subway from JFK to Grand Central Station, and then the train up to Princeton Junction. Staying lost in the crowd seems the most obvious—and comforting—move.
I walk with her through the grounds to the lobby and we both wait outside in the muggy air for a cab. When one pulls up and I realize we have to say goodbye, it feels like my heart is being put on a skewer for roasting. How could I have brought her into this?
She grabs my hand and says, “Stay safe. Please don’t do anything crazy.”
I nod. “You know where the draft emails are, right?” I ask her. “Check there daily for updates.”
“Okay. And when Tenzo finishes with the translation, I’ll post them there.”
“Lose your phone, okay?” I say. “Neither of us can have them anymore.”
She nods. As I move to close the door she says, “Caity—”
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
I close the door because dragging this out is painful. As the cab drives away, she leans her head out the window and says, “Follow the spark, y’all!” sounding just like Arabella Bascom.
I want to run after the cab like a dog, but instead I just stand there watching the car get smaller. When it turns and I can no longer see it, I feel my chest constricting. I can’t take a full breath. I have to lean back to get more air in my lungs, and my mouth is so dry it feels like I’ve gargled with dust.
Next door to the hotel is a little convenience store, so I walk in to get a soda. While I’m back at the fridge case, I see a kid stick a bag of chips inside his pants and then shuffle toward the candy. That’s the guy I want to have my phone. Walking up to the counter, I set my phone just out of sight of the woman at the register, then pay and leave. As I walk out I look back and see the kid discover the phone—it’s as good as gone. I hope he burns all my minutes up while Barend Schlacter tries to track me down through it.
Guzzling the orange soda in just a few swigs makes my eyes water and my throat burn, but the physical pain is relief from what I’ve been feeling.
How do you live with the knowledge that you were responsible for the death of your oldest friend? By the time I get back to the room, I realize I have no other choice. I have to tell my parents.
I have to have them help me finish this.
The only thing I can’t figure out is how to reach them without tipping off the Fraternitas.
Think, I tell myself. What’s the lowest-tech method to reach my parents without it being monitored? Phone and texting are out, Skype is out, emailing is out. Is IM monitored? Probably, if it’s going over the Internet. What about a telegram? Do they even do telegrams anymore?
Then I get it: FAX! Fax is old school, and if I write kind of weird or backwards or something then it will be completely unreadable by any program that’s trying to scan handwriting. And since it’s just going to the Breidablik fax number, no email names will be involved.
I run back into the hotel lobby, borrow two pieces of paper, and take them to the ladies room. There, on the counter, I look in the mirror while I write on the page, so the letters are backward. It’s kind of hard to do, and low-tech as far as code-breaking goes, but at least the letters won’t be read by scanners. In a messy, backwards hand I write:
M & D,
In trouble, need to see you. Call houseboy for details. Meet at the K.D. in 48 hours.
Love, C
Putting just the fax number on the cover page, I hand the sheets to the man behind the desk and ask him if he can send it immediately. He’s engrossed in this game show with big-breasted women wearing too much makeup and too few clothes, so he only glances at the paper for the number before dialing it and sticking the pages in. While the fax rolls through the machine he goes back to watching his TV show. I have to “ahem” when it’s done to get the papers back, which he grabs and hands to me without ever taking his eyes off the TV program.
Back in the cabana, I write a note for Clath.
Dear Professor Clath,
Please don’t be mad but we decided to take the early bus to the Bonompak Ruins. We’re working on a new theory and will share everything tomorrow morning at breakfast.
Your devoted students,
Caity and Justine
After placing this outside her door, I run back to my room and immediately buy tickets for Alex and my parents. I do this in Alex’s name so the receipt goes to his email, which will hopefully trigger him to look in the draft folder of our shared email account.
Then I write a draft email to explain what has happened with Uncle Li and say that I’m not safe. I tell Alex my parents will be calling him and that he should go right away to the castle to talk to them.
For the first time, I allow him to tell them as much as he wants and needs to.
And then I type the words, “I love you.” Because it’s true. And because if anything happens to me—regardless of whether or not the feeling is mutual—I would want him to know it.
THIRTY-THREE
Sitting alone at the airport feels weird and lonely. Even Mr. Papers seems depressed; all he wants to do is stay curled up in his carrier with his homemade box of origami. Without him or Justine, I have nothing to distract me from the huge hole left in my heart.
I wonder if Alex has told my parents yet, wonder if they are freaking out—or worse. What if they won’t help me? What if they take me to juvie or lock me down in some kind of military school? I seriously would not blame them. I have to toughen myself up to handle their supreme disappointment when they find out all that’s happened.
And along the supreme disappointment lines, Clath will be freaking out when we don’t return from a day at the Bonompak Ruins. That one was actually cruel. She’ll be furious, but I doubt she’ll tell Didier—she’ll be too scared to tell him that she lost us. I’m guessing we have two days before all hell breaks loose.
Right before we board, I connect to the airport Wi-Fi and check our shared email account. My hand shakes a bit when I click on the drafts folder, after how I ended my last email draft. The weird thing is, I don’t regret it.
There is one new draft from Alex.
Dear Caity—I don’t have the words to express how sorry I am to hear about Uncle Li. I am terribly worried about you, though I reckon you will keep a level head until we can arrive.
I know firsthand what a loss like this feels like, and nothing can ease your pain. But you may get some comfort in knowing that website hits go up almost 10% a day. We are now pushing daily tones to more than two million phones! If you haven’t had a chance to check Tenzo’s reports from the random number generator, you should—they are showing a steady upward rise like they have never seen before. Tenzo said usually an event will spark a coherence spike and then it will go away, but this data is showing a steady increase.
Please keep your wits about you and hold tight until we can reach you. I am on my way to talk to your parents now.
I cannot lie; I am terrified to tell them everything.
A
lex
Not one mention of the last three words that I typed? Ouch. I accidentally groan out loud.
My flight number is called so I pack up my computer and take a peek at Mr. P., who is still curled up in his carrier, leaning on the origami box. He looks up at me with his glossy round eyes, closes them again, and then sets his little head back on the box.
Once I’m in my seat and I see the flight attendant close the door, I’m finally able to relax. I’ve gotten on without being found and, at least for the next few hours, I can feel completely safe. Once at our cruising altitude, I look out the window at the vast jungle below and wonder how many Mayan villages we will fly over. How many Daykeepers are out there counting the days, performing ceremonies, keeping the world intact?
With few passengers on the flight, I’m the only one in my row. I set Mr. Papers’ carrier on the seat next to me, slip in a couple of pieces of dried fruit and a bottle of water, and give him a little scratch behind the ears.
Does he blame me as I blame myself?
Mentally and physically wiped out, I fall asleep within seconds of resting my head against the cool plastic of the plane window. I only wake up when the wheels hit the ground.
I have to run to catch my connecting flight, but thankfully it’s short and within an hour and a half, the San Francisco cityscape comes into view.
Seeing the blinking light at the top of the Transamerica Pyramid makes my heart thump in my chest, and I feel rage burning in me. How dare the Fraternitas set up headquarters in the very building everyone associates with San Francisco! How dare they scheme their plans of mass control from my backyard! How dare they take the life of my oldest friend.
I try to push the hatred from my heart and look over my beautiful city, remembering all the great memories I have here. And how many more I hope to make.
––––––
I have the whole day to wait until Mom and Dad and Alex touch down at the airport, and I hadn’t given much thought as to what I should do. I don’t feel safe going to Muchuchumil Imports now that Uncle Li is gone—who knows if it has been discovered? It seems like the only place I’ll feel safe is locked inside a hotel room.
Once I’m through customs, I look for an open family bathroom, then sneak in and lock the door. Letting Mr. Papers out to stretch his legs, I sit on the little plastic bench and log on to the Internet. I want to find an airport hotel and pre-pay with Bolon’s PayPal account so all I have to do is pick up the key—someone my age paying cash for a hotel room might raise suspicion.
Once that’s done, I motion for Mr. Papers to get back in the carrier. He walks slowly over and steps in. This is really starting to worry me—he’s lethargic and hasn’t done any origami since he made the lotus with Uncle Li resting on it.
I hope seeing Alex will perk him up. I know it will perk me up.
––––––
The motel is scrappier than it looked on the Internet. It’s an old stucco two-story building with doors that open right outside, dirty from years of being in the path of jet-fuel grime. The whole thing gives me a bad vibe, but I check in anyway.
I have to pull Mr. Papers out of the carrier. His fur is all matted and dull, so I give him a little cat bath with a warm washcloth. After a few minutes, he’s looking sharp again. When I finish, he looks at me dead in the eyes and puts one little hand on each of my cheeks. I seriously would not have blinked if he’d actually spoken to me.
Suddenly he looks over at the door, his eyes widening. Terrified, I whip around in time to see the doorknob turning. Before I can move, the door opens and Barend Schlacter stands before me. Right behind him—like a tall, evil shadow—stands Donald. I haven’t seen him since Easter Island. It still freaks me out that he’s the carbon copy of good, kind Thomas.
I know I should run or scream, but I can’t do anything but think, No one in the world that I care about knows where I am.
I could disappear forever and they would never find me.
“You are looking well, frauline,” Schlacter says, walking over to me. He has no sense of personal space and stops just inches from my face—so close I can smell his nasty breath and see oil glistening in the pores on his nose.
“What do you want?” I ask, backing away. “You’ve already taken my oldest friend—what more could you want?”
“The books, dear. The books.”
“I don’t have them anymore, honest.”
“You’re lying.”
“Seriously, you can look though my things! I don’t have them.”
“Donald, guard the door, will you?” Schlacter says, not taking his eyes off me.
The coward won’t even look at me. He just says, “As you wish,” and walks toward the door. Seeing my room key on the table, he slyly pockets it and steps outside. Cretin.
“Go ahead and look. Tear the room apart. You won’t find them because I don’t have them!”
Schlacter makes a quick grab at me and gets both my hands in one swipe. I pull them away and he slaps me so hard I see white spots. While I’m dazed, he grabs my hands again and binds them together tightly with a plastic zip tie.
I can’t help the tears that roll down my cheek. The pain, the shock, the fear of dying alone in this dingy room—it’s all too much.
“Sit,” says Schlacter, pushing me to the bed.
He pulls out the desk chair, turns it around, and straddles it.
“The books are in the mail,” I say. “I mailed them to Scotland. Go there if you want to intercept them.”
He just shrugs and pulls a small roll of dental floss from his chest pocket. He pulls out a huge length, enough to strangle me.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, slipping a few inches of the floss between his two capped front teeth and running it back and forth.
“Look around,” I say. “Search the place!”
Watching him floss is enough to make me vomit, so I turn my head down. I see something move beneath his chair and realize that Mr. Papers is quietly inching away behind him. Thinking he’s trying to escape, I try to keep Schlacter engaged.
“Like I said, you won’t find them here. They’re in the mail, priority international. They’ll be there in a couple of days.”
He pulls the floss from his mouth and flicks the debris into the air. “Do you want to know how I killed him? How I killed your dear ‘Uncle’ Li?”
I can’t speak, so I just shake my head. I wanted to provoke him so Papers could get away, but now he’s completely deflated me. I have no voice to use.
I keep my head down but can see movement through my curls. Mr. Papers is slowly climbing to the top of the dresser behind where Schlacter is sitting.
“Look at me!” he barks. “I want to see your face when I tell you what his last words were.”
I look up in time to see Mr. Papers reach inside his tiny vest and pull something out of the seam. I can’t tell exactly what it is—a tube of some kind? A straw? He brings this small thing to his lips, walks a few paces to his left so that he’s directly behind Schlacter, and then blows. I don’t see anything, but something must have hit Schlacter because he screams “Autsch! ” and reaches to the back of his head.
He’s pulling hard at whatever Papers stuck in him, but he can’t seem to get it out. Then Papers fires another one, and Schlacter falls forward onto the chair back that he was leaning against.
That’s when I see the two needles sticking out of the back of Barend Schlacter’s skull.
THIRTY-FOUR
Mr. Papers hops over to the bed, still holding the tiny tube. I watch as he walks up Schlacter’s back and pulls one of the two needles out. Sticking it back into the tube, he then tucks it all back into the inside of his vest seam.
When he motions to the door with his head, I hold up my hands. “You have to get these off,” I whisper. “Donald is still out there.”
Mr. Papers leans over my hands and with his sharp little teeth starts gnawing at the zip tie. He’s almost made it though when Donald opens the
door.
We both look up at him, guilty. When he runs toward me, I wince and cower, certain he’s going to kill me. Stopping immediately before us, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a large pocket knife.
This is it.
“Please, Donald. Please don’t,” I beg. “I’ll tell you where the books are. I’ll give you anything you want.”
He picks up Schlacter’s hand and feels for a pulse.
From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Papers slipping his hand into his vest for the tiny needle and blow tube.
Donald reaches over, picks up my bound hands, and slips the knife under the chewed-up zip tie. With one easy pull, my hands are free.
I look up at Donald, and he smiles. Turning to Mr. Papers, he says, “Put that thing down, mate. I’m here to help.”
“But—”
“I know,” he says. “I reckon you have no reason to trust me, what with my history and all.” He twirls the knife so that the handle is toward me and offers it. “Take it, lass.”
Mr. Papers is still in the shadowy corner with the tube to his mouth, at the ready. But Donald doesn’t go after him. Instead, he reaches into Schlacter’s pocket and takes out two zip ties and his phone. “Keep this too if you’d like,” he says, tossing me the phone. Then he binds Schlacter’s hands and ankles.
I stand to see if he’ll stop me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he fishes around for Schlacter’s wallet. “I must go get him a room so we can get him out of yours,” Donald says. “I understand if you don’t trust me and need to go, but at least let me get this horses’ arse from your room ’fore you leave.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why are you helping me now?”
“The bigger question is, why haven’t I been helping you for years?”
“But you’re with the Fraternitas!”
The Serpent's Coil Page 17