Curioddity (31 page)

Lucy approached, carrying her half of the pile. She seemed eager, and up for the task of being shot on sight inside a strange building. “Okay, you know the layout of the building. How do we get inside?” she said.

Wil hadn't really given it much thought, and it showed. “Through the lobby, I guess,” he replied. “I mean I rent an office on the nineteenth floor. I have every right to go inside.”

“Can't we sneak in?”

“Why?”

“Because I thought we'd be sneaking. It's not going to look good on my detective résumé if I just sidle up to the front door, wave hello to the heavily armed ninja-bots on guard, and walk inside.”

“We don't have any ninja-bots.”

“I'm not surprised. They probably all quit. The people who own the building keep letting strangers waltz in through the front door.”

Lucy headed for the front door, trying to look as sullen as possible. Wil watched her for a moment, amused by her ability to make even the most mundane moment seem a little brighter. Having no other choice, he followed her toward the lobby in time to find Mr. Whatley moving to the front door with his master key. The building janitor was the most punctual and unimaginative person Wil had ever met, and he could be relied upon to stick to the most mundane of tasks. Within seconds, Wil was completely overmatched.

“Hello, Mr. Whatley,” he said, cheerily. “I just need to grab something from my office!”

“Wish I could oblige, Mr. Morgan,” said Mr. Whatley, putting the key in the lock. “But I'm under strict instructions to lock the building down at ten tonight. Landlord's orders.”

“I won't be a moment. I just have to run up and right back down again.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Mr. Whatley, tightening the key in the lock. “Can't let you in at this late hour. It's more than my job's worth.”

Wil narrowed his eyes. If Mr. Dinsdale at the Curioddity Museum were to be believed, this would be the precise moment he should do something entirely random and unexpected. Thus, he found himself asking a question that only two or three days previously he would never have considered in a million years (give or take two or three days): what would Mr. Dinsdale do? He fished the Sequitur from its plastic bag, closed his eyes, and shook his head in his disbelief. Swallowing hard, he held the Sequitur up against the glass door. “How about that game last night?” he said with as much artificial conviction as he could muster. “Did you see that last play?”

“What game?” asked Mr. Whatley, immediately suspicious. “I didn't see anything on the highlights.”

“You know. They had the highlights on all day.”

There was a brief pause. “Oh. That game.”

Wil looked up, and could barely believe his eyes—Mr. Whatley seemed transfixed by the wooden object being dangled in front of his face. Wil decided to press the advantage. “I can't believe they missed that shot right at the end of the game, can you?” He took one small step toward the door.

“Oh, right!” exclaimed Lucy, presumably figuring she would go with whatever opportunity seemed to be presenting itself. “That guy is such a choke artist!”

“He is?” replied Mr. Whatley, confused. “Not Patterson again? Please tell me Patterson didn't blow another game!”

“The very same,” said Wil, as he gently pushed against the door, opening it slightly. He smiled sweetly. “It's a good job his teammates have his back, though. That play was unbelievable.”

“Righteous!” agreed Lucy, enthusiastically. “Especially number seventeen. He's a stud.”

“Wilkerson?” exclaimed Mr. Whatley, incredulous. “Wilkerson's a backup.”

“Not after that final play last night, he's not,” continued Lucy. Wil could see she was getting lost in the moment. “Best put-back slam dunk I ever saw in my life!”

“But he's a goalie!” exclaimed Mr. Whatley. “A hockey goalie.”

“That's what made that play so epic.”

*   *   *

B
Y NOW,
Lucy and Wil had edged their way inside the lobby and were slowly backing toward the elevators as Wil dangled the Sequitur high above his head. Poor Mr. Whatley looked very confused as he stared transfixed at the wooden object. Things were beginning to head sideways, as they always did whenever Wil felt he was about to accomplish something positive.

“Well, I'd love to stay and chat, Mr. Whatley,” he said, “but I have to get home in time to watch the playoffs.”

Never taking her eyes off the building manager, Lucy could only smile and try to look as generally innocent as possible. “What the heck are we doing?” she hissed in Wil's direction as they backed toward the main lobby.

“Making small talk,” hissed Wil in return. “I think his brain is filling in the missing pieces. Just keep smiling.”

Over at the door, Mr. Whatley's brain was beginning to ask itself difficult questions, none of which it seemed to like the answer to. “Wait a minute,” he said, faltering, “didn't we trade Wilkerson last month for a winger?”

“It's a good job we did after last night!” said Wil, unconvincingly. “See you in the morning!”

Thankfully, he and Lucy had managed to back their way around a nearby corner. They stepped hastily to one side and were obscured by random cubicles, allowing them just enough space to check on Mr. Whatley. The confused custodian stood at the door for a few moments longer before turning and locking it. With puzzlement written across his face, he pocketed his keys, muttered something about point spreads, and headed off to his tiny office to catch up on the latest events in the playoffs. Wil supposed Mr. Whatley was in for a minor letdown.

“I feel guilty,” said Lucy, feeling guilty. “What did we just do?”

“I don't know,” replied Wil. “But once we get out of this let's go to a hockey game.”

“It's a date.”

Looking around, Wil and Lucy found themselves roughly fifty feet from the elevators. But they were not alone. To Wil's astonishment, the comb-over twins sat at their eternal chess game, lost in concentration. He pointed them out to Lucy.

“We'll have to sneak past,” he whispered. “Just keep low. They look pretty busy.”

Lucy nodded, and took the lead. She lowered her head below the level of the nearest cubicle and headed along a roundabout route that would take them to the elevators. As Wil followed, trying to keep the Civil War periscope on his back from poking up above the level of the cubicles, his eyes strayed toward the comb-over brothers. Looking below table level, Wil could now see that neither of the twins actually possessed feet—they were attached at the knees, and this, presumably, explained why they never moved away from the lobby. This incredible sight caused Wil to trip over his bag of kit and caboodle, and he crashed to the floor in a very loud and disoriented heap.

At the sound of Wil's nasty tumble, one of the twins looked vaguely in his direction. The man's eyes alighted on Wil's position, yet he seemed to look directly through Wil, as if not seeing him at all. Wil stood up, just to see if he was imagining things.

“What are you doing?” hissed Lucy. “Get down! They'll see us!”

“No, it's okay. I don't think they can,” replied Wil. “Take a look.”

He motioned toward the chess game, where the two brothers were looking decidedly confused. It appeared as if they had heard the commotion Wil had made but could not perceive that Wil and Lucy were present.

Wil moved toward them, quietly. The brothers simply returned to their chess game unaware of anything, it seemed, outside their little bubble of space and time. Intrigued, Lucy followed Wil and stood at the side of the table where the brothers continued to study their board.

“What's going on?” asked Lucy. “Who are these guys?”

“I'm not sure,” replied Wil. “I see them here every day but I'm not really sure they're aware of me. Look.”

He waved his hand in front of one brother's face. No response.

“Must be a pretty intense game,” concluded Lucy.

“I don't think it's that. Maybe it's just a feeling but I don't think these guys are living in the same universe that we are. I have a roommate like that. He really seems to like mushrooms.”

“Okay, that makes no sense at all.”

“Want to see something else that makes no sense? Take a look under the table.”

Lucy obliged, and emerged with her face as white as a sheet. “Okay, that was unexpected,” she said in a somewhat understated fashion. “How do they go to the bathroom?”

“Very carefully, I would imagine. Come on. We need to get to the top floor.”

Wil moved away. On a whim, Lucy considered the chessboard in front of the strange comb-over brothers and toppled over the black king, just to see what would happen. The brothers looked around them, startled. Not wishing to push her luck, Lucy quickly backed away.

As they approached the elevators, Wil could tell Lucy was having a little bit of a crisis. “This doesn't make any sense,” she muttered. “What's going on around here?”

“It's the Curioddity Museum,” said Wil. “I think once you visit, you begin to see things differently. Every time I leave, it's like I take a little piece of it with me.”

Lucy pondered this for roughly two seconds, then pressed the elevator button. “Actually, that makes a lot of sense,” she said, rapidly reversing course. “At least the museum is easier to accept than all that stuff on TV about the economy and airborne viruses.”

Wil chuckled. Lucy was the most random person he had ever met, with the possible exception of his mother and Mr. Dinsdale. She was going to do just fine.

*   *   *

T
HE ELEVATOR
soon became noticeable by its extended absence, and it did not take long before Wil realized the call button had failed to illuminate. He tried it a few more times, just for good measure. The button seemed equally adept at not lighting up the third time, just as it had excelled at not responding on the first two occasions. Wil sighed with relief. Making their way up to the penthouse may well prove to be slightly more challenging, he concluded, but at least neither he nor Lucy would succumb to the toxic fumes of the elevator's rat vomit.

“We need to find another way up,” Lucy said, disappointed. “Any ideas?”

“Not really. I've only ever taken the elevator.”

“What about the stairs?”

“There aren't any. Mr. Whatley says they were removed from the bottom three floors as a safety precaution.”

“That doesn't seem sensible.”

“And the rest of this evening does?”

“Point taken. Is there another elevator?”

“I don't know. I have no idea which way we're supposed to go.”

“
Greetings, Wil Morgan,
” came a familiar metallic voice from inside Wil's pocket. “
Would you like me to look up ‘which way am I supposed to go' on the Internet?
”

Wil removed SARA from his pocket and glared at her glowing screen. “SARA,” he said with as much patience as he could marshal, “if this involves either Lahore, Pakistan, or anywhere in Korea, I'm warning you in advance I'm going to be a little testy. Do you have any idea how Lucy and I can get up to the top floor of this building, please?” Wil flipped on the Smart Response function of SARA's operating system and then added, hastily, “And please make sure it's something we stand a chance of surviving.”

“
Calculating…”
SARA's various symbols and widgets glowed for a few moments as she pondered the problem. Wil felt it best to keep his expectations to a minimum. “
There are three possible paths to the upper floors of the Castle Towers at this time,
” SARA began. “
Are you equipped with a military helicopter?
”

“I think you probably know the answer to that,” replied Wil, much to Lucy's amusement. “Try again. And this time, let's try something that won't get you thrown out of a top window once we get to the penthouse.”

“
At the fourth level and above, the emergency stairs may be used to access the upper levels.
”

“And yet we're firmly entrenched on the first floor with no way to get to those levels, as I'm sure your GPS function has already told you.”

“
Recalculating…,
” said SARA, innocently.

“Wow,” said Lucy, impressed. “She really is brilliantly mental, isn't she?”

“You have no idea,” replied Wil, exasperated.

“
Do you have in your possession a liquid dispenser, some clay or putty, a nonconductive positioning rod, and two ordinary paper clips?
” asked SARA, suddenly. Wil sensed a slight air of desperation hidden in her metallic tone, though he couldn't be sure.

“Well, of course we don't! Why on Earth would we—wait a minute…” Wil's voice trailed off. If he didn't know any better, the universe was setting him up to be the butt of some cosmic joke. He checked the contents of his plastic bag, where the requisite paper clips, surface cleaner bottle, and small lump of blue clay did their utmost to jump out and strangle his intellect by his desperately overtaxed cerebral cortex. They failed, but only as a result of the rainbow lollipop's inertia. “Okay, I have all of those items, SARA. Is this some kind of joke?”

“
Negative, Wil Morgan. A joke is the evolution of an unhealthy mind hankering after a spurious, epigrammatic turn of speech.
”

“I think that's sarcasm,” said Lucy.

“
Negative,
” replied SARA. “
I am incapable of sarcasm. In addition to the aforementioned items, you will need—
”

“A coil of copper wire and a vacuum bag?” said Wil, interrupting.

“
Affirmative. Please follow the instructions on the screen for entrance to the upper floors of the Castle Towers.
”