Ambush. Part 8

Kate and I lifted the metal screen back up. It rolled up into the top of the door frame and clicked into place. Once it was in place you couldn't tell it was there.

"It's probably just broken," Kate said. "Or maybe it never worked."

"It has to work," I insisted.

"Just because you want it to doesn't mean it has to," Kate said with disappointment.

"Don't be such a wet blanket," I said, not fully understanding the saying myself. "Because wet blankets are cold and uncomfortable," I tried to explain.

"Right," Kate said. "That's why they say that."

"All I know is that they wouldn't put in an elevator just to look at," I debated. "There has to be a purpose to this thing."

"As much as I wish you were right, you might be wrong," Kate said. "Think about it. We found a train in a cave, dragons in the garden, and slides behind the walls. Some of it makes sense, but most of it just points clearly to the fact that your family is nuts. This might be the nuttiest thing of all-an elevator in a closet? This house has more stairs in it than any place I've ever seen. Why would they build an elevator and then hide it in a bathroom?"

"Maybe one of my relatives was like Batman," I suggested. "All secretive and stuff. They'd run in here, take the elevator down to a secret hideout, and then save the world."

"Your relatives might have run in here, but it was more likely to use the toilet than save the world."

"My heritage is offended," I told her.

"Your heritage has more to worry about than what I'm saying."

"That's true. So let's go look at the chimneys outside," I suggested. "And check the other floors beneath this to see if there are crazy closets and openings there."

"Okay, but I have to hurry," she said. "My parents will go crazy if I'm too late."

The two of us put the shelves back into place and closed the closet door. We then ran down to the next floor and found the bathroom directly beneath the one we had just been in. There was no closet. We checked the next three floors. Those two had no closets and no openings that connected to the shaft. We couldn't check the bas.e.m.e.nt because it was filled with dirt.

"So there's an elevator that doesn't go anywhere?" Kate asked.

"It could go up," I suggested.

"But there's only two floors above it," Kate pointed out. "And it doesn't go to the dome because it's not in line with it."

"It could go to the bas.e.m.e.nt," I reminded her. "There's just no way we can know for sure."

I held Kate's hand and led her outside and around the west end of the manor. Following the brick path, we made it to the side of the manor where the brick chimney that housed the elevator was. The chimney looked just like all the others on the manor. I could see three others on the west side alone. I never would have thought that there was an elevator inside any of them. The chimney ran from the ground all the way to the very top of the manor where it stuck up about ten feet above the

seventh-floor balcony. We examined the part of the chimney shaft we could reach, but it was nothing but solid brick.

"Someday they're going to write books about this house," Kate said.

"We could go to the roof and check out the chimney from the top," I suggested.

"I have homework," Kate complained. "Tomorrow after school."

I agreed.

"Promise?" Kate asked, wanting rea.s.surance. "Don't go exploring it without me. I want to be here when you figure this out."

"I promise," I replied.

I walked Kate down to the bottom floor and down our long driveway to the gate at the front of the property. I kissed her as the sunset waned and she slipped off like a star of her own. I had homework to do, but more important than that, I had a promise to break. Kate would understand.

I ran all the way back to the manor.

Chapter 12.

Please, Please Me I was running back up the drive when I heard Wane calling my name from the courtyard near the fountain. She didn't sound mad, so I decided to find out what she wanted. I dashed around the fountain and over to her. She was standing near the blue Mercedes with keys in her hand and a half smile on her face. It was the kind of face she made whenever she had news to deliver that she wasn't sure I would like.

I should have pretended to not hear her.

"There you are," she said. "Your father has asked me to bring you to see him."

I was torn.

I wanted to see my father, that wasn't what was tearing at me. I hadn't seen him for days, and even though he was sick and a bit confused lately, I loved him. Our visits were always short but important to me. The reason I was torn was because I knew I was in trouble. I had destroyed property and been incarcerated since we had last spoken, and whereas it might be fun to catch up, it would be painful to fill him in on those occurrences. My father was not a man to be trifled with, and I felt very much that I had been caught trifling.

I skidded to a stop five feet in front of Wane. "He wants to see me now?"

"Now," Wane said.

"It's kinda getting late," I said, looking at the slowly dimming sky. "Shouldn't we wait until tomorrow?"

"He's insisting that he see you now."

Wane opened the pa.s.senger-side car door, and I climbed in. She then got in her side and started up the car.

As we made the almost hour-long drive to the hospital, Wane lectured me and tried to teach me things-taking advantage of a captive audience like most adults do. By the time we reached the hospital, I felt so preached at that I thought it was Sunday.

The hospital was in a beautiful, old building near the west end of Kingsplot. The building was made out of wood and stucco, and I could see the top of the large gla.s.s atrium in the center of the roof.

Wane stopped the car in front of the hospital and instructed me to go in.

"I'll be waiting out here for you," she said.

"You're not coming in?"

"He wants to talk to you alone."

I shrugged and started to think of all the things I would never accomplish in my life, seeing as this would probably be my last free moment alive.

I walked in through the large wooden door and signed my name on a piece of paper near the front desk. A lady with a really big nose called an orderly, who promptly marched me to my father's room.

We turned down two different halls and walked through three sets of locked doors before we arrived at his room.

#19.

The orderly patted me on the back and informed me he would be waiting outside of the door for me if there were any problems.

I knocked firmly.

"Come in," my father's voice called.

Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, I slipped in. As the door clicked closed behind me, I heard, "Beck."

I could see my dad sitting on a chair in the corner of the poorly lit room. He was wearing a blue bathrobe and black slippers over white socks. His gray hair was a mess, and he had the makings of a pretty good beard. He was almost perfectly still; the only motion was his ring finger on his left hand tapping against the wooden arm on the orange chair. He looked at me, and I knew I was in for it. Even in his most troubled stages, he had always tried to not frighten me. Now, he looked like a ghost from Scrooge who had come not only to haunt, but to hurt me.

"Sit," he said calmly, never taking his eyes off me.

I sat down on the edge of his bed.

"You look good," I tried.

My father grunted.

"I got a B on my math test," I said, throwing out the one good thing I had done in the last few days.

"Math's important," he replied.

"The mountains are really green," I tried. "It's like they know summer's coming."

"Beck, I didn't ask you to come so we could talk about the landscape," he said briskly.

"Right," I waved. "You just wanted to hang out with your only child-a little father-son time. I understand. I probably should have brought a ball and mitt so we could play catch."

I wasn't trying to be sarcastic, but the feeling in the room was grim. It was as if we had gathered to talk about the death of someone we loved dearly. I could see the pain in my dad's eyes, and I knew I needed to do something. I had messed up. I had made a mistake and cost him more money all while he was still in the hospital fighting to get well. I was making his life worse, not better. I figured I needed to just come out with it, take my lumps, and then spend the rest of my days working to repair what I had done.

"Listen, Dad," I began. "I know I messed up really bad. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of it to happen. It's not like I went to the field trip thinking, 'How can I ruin as many things as possible?'"

My dad kept quiet, silently soaking in my sincere confession.

"Trouble just seems to find me," I continued. "Every plant in the area wants to mess me up constantly. I can't go anywhere. And now I'm grounded. Trust me, if I could do it all over I would have faked sick and just not gone on the field trip."

It might not have been the wisest thing to say, but it was honest. I had said my piece, and now it was time to just sit still and appear remorseful.

My father looked at me and closed his eyes. He opened them back up, and his head bobbled slightly. I could feel the tongue-las.h.i.+ng that was about to happen. I held my hand up in front of my face, as if he were literally about to dump painful words down on me.

"Beck, you must plant that stone," he whispered fearlessly.

I put my hand down and looked around. "What?" I asked, not believing for a moment what I was hearing.

"The stone," he said urgently. "You must plant it."

"I can't . . ."

"You don't understand," he interrupted. "You must. None of this will change until that last stone is planted and what needs to happen is finished."

"Dad, you can't be . . ."

"My mind is slipping," he said. "The darkness our ancestors have been suffering from since Edward will kill me. There's only one way, Beck. Where is the stone?"

"Gone," I said.

"That's a lie!" he hollered. "You would never destroy it, you're a Pillage."

I scooted over on the bed, not liking the way this conversation was going. The words my father was saying scared me not only for him, but for me. I already knew that I was not above the illness affecting him.

"Where is it?" he asked again.

"I got rid of it," I insisted.

"Find it, Beck," my father pleaded. "Please, I can't fight off these dark feelings much longer. You must find it. You must save me. My life is in your hands."

"You said I should never trust my hands," I reminded him.

"Beck, I'll perish."

I looked around at the dark but comfortable room he was now in. "The doctors are saving you, Dad. It's just going to take some time."

"I don't have much time," he said, trembling. "Neither do you."

"What's that mean?" I asked defensively. "What do you mean I don't have time?"