Resonance (8 page)

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

A
DDIE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY,
vibrating with outrage.

“I take it you talked to Mom and Dad,” I said.

She stomped inside, Laurel behind her looking amused and resigned in equal measure.

“Cocoa?” Eliot asked her. “This part takes a while, sometimes.”

Laurel stifled a laugh.

Addie ignored them. “You should not be working for Lattimer.”

“You are,” I pointed out. “You asked me to help, remember? How is this any different?”

The project is done. I'm back to regular apprenticeship work.”

I hadn't known that. “Did you have any luck? Find any Free Walkers?”

Her complexion cooled from feverish to impassive ivory. “No. We ran out of leads to follow.”

The best lies look identical to the truth, only better. It's not about telling people what you want them to think—it's about
telling people the story they want to believe. Addie was too straightforward to be any good at it; she assumed a lie was truth's opposite instead of its mirror. I'd had years of experience. I knew better.

Eliot did too, thanks to my terrible influence, and didn't bother to hide his skepticism. “You didn't find anything?”

Her eyes were a murky green instead of their usual jade. “Nothing we could pursue. The point is, you shouldn't be working for Lattimer.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're a kid. You don't even have a license.”

I stifled the urge to remind her she was no longer in charge of me. “I will soon. Aren't you the one who wanted me to think about my future? If I do this, I can write my own ticket.”

“Technically speaking,” Eliot put in, “we all work for the Consort. This is a specialized assignment.”

“This is Monty,” Addie snarled. “And a
terrible
idea.”

“What does he think Monty knows?” Laurel asked. “Even if he had been working with the Free Walkers, they would have scattered as soon as he was arrested.”

Her tone made it clear she knew the truth about the anomaly—­and Simon. I glared at Addie, who nibbled a thumbnail and avoided my eyes.

“A weapon,” I said into the sudden quiet. “The Consort thinks Simon's dad built a weapon before he was captured, something the Free Walkers would use against them. Lattimer thinks Monty has information about it.”

“I don't care if he does or not. Find a way to get out of this,” Addie said. “Digging around in Free Walker stuff is dangerous.”

“We're not.”

Addie arched her eyebrows. “And you're looking at Rose's journals because . . .”

“Homework,” Eliot said quickly. “For Shaw.”

“Leave the lying to Del,” Addie said dryly. “In fact, leave this alone completely, both of you. Before somebody gets hurt.”

“Too late,” I shot back. “Somebody already has, in case you've forgotten. His name was Simon. Ring a bell?”

Eliot put a hand on my arm, but I shook him off.

Addie's shoulders sagged. “Del . . .”

“Oh!” said Laurel, overbright and obvious. “This is cute! Did you two come up with it?”

“With what?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from Addie.

“This song.” She tapped the list of frequencies and hummed lightly. “Sorry. It's a thing I do when I'm bored at work.”

“We didn't write a song,” Eliot said. “What kind of thing?”

“I get stuck doing a lot of data entry—coding navigation reports and cleavings paperwork and stuff. Which is okay, I guess, but they all start to look the same after a few hours, so I made up a game. Each frequency corresponds to a note, more or less. Like this one is a G-flat.” She sang it, her voice a clear, sweet soprano. “And this one's a D. Put enough of them together and they make a song.”

“Like sight reading?” Eliot asked.

“Yeah. It's not hard; the trick is to remember which range
of frequencies correspond to each note on the scale. A generator would do the job, but it sounds nicer if you sing it.”

“Can you sing this one?” I pushed the paper toward her. My pulse was thrumming so loudly I wasn't sure I'd be able to hear her.

She looked over at Addie, shrugged, and began to sing—just the notes, not the words—but I knew the tune immediately. Judging by the look on Addie's face, so did she.

Nothing's done that can't be un-,

Nothing's lost that—

Laurel broke off. “Where's the rest?”

“We know the rest,” I said softly.

“Where did you get those frequencies?” Addie demanded, reaching for the last remaining journal. I snatched it away just in time.

“It's mine,” I snapped. “Monty sang it to me, not you.”

“That is brilliant,” Eliot said. “Freakishly brilliant, but still.”

“Well, Monty's a freak,” Addie said. “It fits.”

Laurel glanced around—me clutching a twenty-year-old book to my chest, Addie grim as death, Eliot staring at the mess of papers like he couldn't tell if they were a bomb or a birthday present.

“Somebody should explain to the new girl,” she said.

“Rose left us a code,” I said. “She converted the frequencies to notes and made a song out of it. But she only put the first few measures in the journal.”

“And Monty taught the rest to Del when she was a kid,” Addie said.

“What's the message?” Laurel asked. “Rose's location?”

“No way. Monty knew this was here,” Eliot said. “If it could have helped him find Rose, he would have used it a long time ago.”

“It's not a map,” Laurel said. “But it could be.”

We all looked at her blankly.

“Every note on the scale resonates at a different frequency. But they're rough approximations—a plain middle C won't match an Echo. The frequency needs to be much more specific.”

She took a blank piece of paper and drew a staff, then sketched in the melody she'd sung. “See? Individually, they're too general. But if you combine them into a single chord . . . an octad, I guess you'd call it . . . they'll generate a more distinct frequency.” She drew a chord, eight notes stacked together like a blobby, upright caterpillar. “It might be enough to pinpoint a specific Echo.”

“Not from a piece of sheet music,” Eliot argued. “The range of possible frequencies would be too broad. It's dependent on who's singing, or what instrument you play it on. Middle C resonates differently if you play it on a guitar or a flute or a cello.”

I touched his hand. “Or a violin.”

“Exactly,” Eliot replied, and looked at me again. “Oh.
Oh
.”

“Rose's frequencies,” I said. “Rose's violin.”

Every violin has its own voice; like fingerprints, no two are exactly alike, which is why people will pay millions for a genuine
Stradivarius. Monty had given me my grandmother's violin as soon as I was big enough to play it. I didn't know if I should be touched that he'd trusted my eleven-year-old self with something so irreplaceable, or furious he'd been manipulating me for so long. I was leaning toward the latter.

I led the way to the music room and took the violin out of the case, the burnished wood familiar as an old friend. I used Rose's pendant to tune it, trying to keep frustration from stiffening my fingers.

“I can record your playing and combine the frequencies digi­tally,” Eliot said, laptop at the ready. “It shouldn't take too long to process.”

I tucked the instrument under my chin, lifted the bow, and Addie spoke.

“Even if you're right—and I refuse to believe that the Free Walkers would be so stupid as to use a
nursery rhyme
as a secret code—but if this works, what are you going to do? Chase down the frequency? Find this weapon, if that's what it is? What then? Lattimer will know you're up to something. So will the Free Walkers. Do you have any idea how much trouble you'll be in?”

She knotted her fingers together, face pinched with worry. “Del, stop and
think.
Haven't you learned anything?”

The lessons that stick are the hardest to learn. Simon had taught me how to see the truth of a person, because he'd seen me. He'd taught me how to sacrifice—to look beyond myself and focus on the good. But he'd also taught me how to fight.
You play until you hear the buzzer.

I looked up at Addie—really looked—and saw the fear behind her anger. She'd never been scared before, not like this. I wondered what she'd seen during her special assignment to frighten her so deeply.

“Don't you want answers?” I asked.

Laurel took Addie's hand, the gesture so simple and automatic my throat ached.

“Of course I do,” Addie said.

I rubbed my thumb along the ebony frog of the bow. “The Consort's not going to hand them over like a bag of jelly beans. We have to find them ourselves.”

“And what happens when you get caught?”

“All I'm doing is playing the violin.”

Before she could protest further, I nodded to Eliot and drew the bow over the strings, the notes rich and clear. I tried to envision my grandmother standing in their room, playing for Monty, sending out a message that might never be found. Had she meant it for me?

I played the song three times, stopping at Eliot's signal. “Got it,” he said, and tapped furiously at the keys. “Give me a minute.”

A minute was all it took for Addie to start in again.

“Let's say you find this weapon. You'd have to give it to Lattimer. Who you
hate.
Is that really your plan? The Free Walkers won't let it go without a fight.”

The sound of Eliot's typing stopped abruptly, then started again. The comment needled me. Finding Simon wasn't my endgame.
Being
with him was, and unless the Free Walkers
succeeded, that wouldn't happen. If keeping Lattimer from finding this weapon would help, I'd do it—even if it meant leaving this life behind.

I tucked the violin back into the case, lazy and cool. “I can handle the Free Walkers.”

“You won't need to,” Eliot said, his voice a mixture of disappointment and relief. “It didn't work.”

“What?” I peered over his shoulder. “It didn't generate a frequency?”

“Not one specific enough to identify an Echo. This one is too short.”

I sank onto the arm of the chair. “It worked. It made perfect sense. And it was totally wrong?”

“Not wrong.” Laurel said, studying the screen. “Incomplete. You'd need at least one more frequency, maybe two.”

“Monty lied. Again,” I said flatly. I'd fallen for it.
Again
.

Eliot shook his head. “He's playing a game. Bet you he's got another puzzle waiting for your next visit.”

“He's in for a long wait,” I said. “I'm not asking Monty for a damn thing.”

Not when I could ask Ms. Powell instead.

CH
APTER FOURTEEN

Days until Tacet: 23

W
E NEED TO TALK,” I
told Ms. Powell the next day after orchestra.

“I agree. You had quite the afternoon.”

I gaped at her. “You heard?”

“I have an eclectic group of friends,” she said. “Did you have a nice visit?”

“It was interesting.” I rubbed at my throat, where my violin had left a fresh welt. I had fallen out of practice.

“I'd love to hear more about it.” She glanced around the still-crowded room. “After school?”

Eliot was putting his cello away, out of earshot. I wondered what story I could give him this time. “I guess so.”

“Great,” she said, and turned to one of the violas, so breezy and dismissive I wasn't sure we were on the same page.

Eliot waited until we were in the hall before asking, “Everything okay after I left last night? Did Addie lighten up?”

“Addie never lightens up,” I said. “She thinks this is going to be a disaster.”

“She's probably right,” he said as we headed toward second period. “Can you do me one favor?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me what we're after.”

I stopped. “The frequency. The map. Whatever it is Rose hid.”

“I mean, what is our objective? Are you trying to get in good with the Consort? Find this weapon, or whatever the journals lead to, so you can hand it over to Lattimer and get a gold star?”

“No!”

“Then what are we doing? Because the only other reason I can think of is that you're hoping to join up with the Free Walkers.”

I felt for the pendant at my neck. “The Consort . . . they're not what you think.”

“I don't know what to think, because you won't tell me what's going on.”

“It's complicated.”

He threw open his locker and pulled out his physics textbook. “It's really not. Either you're a Walker, no matter how creeped out you are by Lattimer and the cleavings, or you're a Free Walker, and you leave. Permanently.”

Some music is more about the silence than the sound; some conversations are more about the words left unsaid. Eliot was telling me that, if I left, I'd be on my own.

“I need a little time, that's all. To figure things out.”

“Think fast,” he warned.

“Yeah. Hey, I'm going to stay after with Ms. Powell again today. I want to work on my sonata.”

He paused. “The Debussy? You nailed it in class.”

“The phrasing's tricky,” I started to say, and he cut me off.

“You do not need help with a sonata,” he said. “You definitely don't need help on the same piece twice in one week. What are you up to?”

“I'm meeting with Ms. Powell,” I said. “She wants me to make up the time I missed while I was out.”

His eyes narrowed. “You're Walking.”

“I'm . . .”

“Do what you want,” he said coldly. “Chase after Free Walkers, Walk by yourself, play your sonata. Just do me a favor?”

“Anything,” I whispered.

“Don't lie to my face, Del. Because you're right. I
do
deserve better.”

•   •   •

Lunch with Eliot was a frigid, miserable, silent affair. Music theory wasn't much better. And I didn't have to lie to him after school, because he was nowhere to be found.

“Where's Eliot?” Ms. Powell asked.

“Excellent question,” I muttered. “It would be easier if you'd let me tell him.”

“Too risky,” she said, buttoning her coat.

“No bag?” I asked, hefting my own backpack.

“Always better to travel light,” she said, and we headed out on foot.

After a few blocks, I realized our destination. “We're taking the train?”

“Eventually. We have to Walk to the right Echo first. We'll cross again once we're on the correct train.”

“While it's moving?”

“Harder to track pivots in a moving object,” she said. “The train schedules have to match up between Echoes, or you end up on the tracks.”

Which was exactly why Walkers never used mobile pivots. Any Walk could lead you into danger. It was part of the reason we navigated by familiar routes so often—moving between known, mapped pivots was safer, if less efficient. But Ms. Powell seemed confident, so I didn't question her further.

We crossed through outside the station, waiting as the Echo train squealed and thundered to a stop. Once we boarded, I automatically reached for my ticket, despite the pitch buzzing in my ears. “No need,” she reminded me.

I slid my train pass back into my bag and followed her to a vestibule at the far end of the train. The metal handrail was cold to the touch, and I pulled on my fingerless gloves, swaying from side to side. Ms. Powell checked her watch. “About five minutes,” she said. “You should hold on to my arm as we cross, but in case something goes wrong, here's the pitch.”

She played the frequency on her phone, its shrillness competing with the shriek of the wheels. The doors opened and the conductor strolled through, oblivious to our presence. “Tell me about seeing your grandfather.”

“How did you hear?”

“I told you before: We have people inside CCM. Not many, and their access is limited, but they keep us in the loop.”

I wondered if I knew them—if I'd been interacting with Free Walkers all along.

“How was he?” she prompted.

I gripped the metal railing. “I think they've tortured him. The cell that connects to the oubliette looks like an operating room. There are restraints on the table.”

“That would fit with what we know about the Consort's methods,” she said, her usually ruddy cheeks turning pale.

“I didn't want them to torture him. I hate him, but not like that.”

“Your visits are probably protecting him from further interrogations. Tell me about the setup. We've never been able to get someone into the sublevels before—at least not in and out.”

I thought of Gil Bradley, trapped in one of those cells, awaiting execution. I didn't even know what he looked like, but I couldn't help imagining a thirty-year-old version of Simon, and my heart stuttered as I described the layout, including the cameras and guards. “They monitor everything,” I said. “ID cards to get in and out, video feeds in all the cells. They only have two people watching the hall, but they don't need any more than that.”

“Don't sound so defeated, Del. Information is power, and this is more than we knew before. What did Monty say?”

I folded a star out of notebook paper. “He gave me a message.
A puzzle, and when I solved it, I found a frequency hidden in Rose's journal. In a song.”

She nodded. “We use that technique to encrypt locations.”

“Well, this one's incomplete. The chord wasn't complex enough to match an Echo.”

Ms. Powell, I noticed, did not look surprised.

“Do you know where it leads?” I asked.

“In a general sense. That's what we want you to help us with.”

“Help you how?”

She looked out the window at the warehouses flashing by. “I'm not really the one to ask.”

“Who is?”

“The people we're going to meet.”

My heart stuttered. “Simon?”

She smiled like a child with a secret. “Among others.”

“You said it would take time! Not that I'm complaining.”

“The Consort's planning a Tacet, as you've probably heard. Our timetable has moved up.”

My stomach pitched but my voice was even. “You're sure Simon will be there?”

“That's what I've been told. We're going to meet with my contact. She'll take you to another meeting site, and the people there will transfer you to the Echo where Simon will be. He'll be doing the same on his end.”

“That sounds . . . elaborate.”

“It is. It also makes it difficult for the Consort to trace our movements.”

Before I could ask more about Simon—or the secret Echo—the crackling loudspeaker announced the next stop. “Here we go,” Ms. Powell said. “Feel the pivot?”

I did—a rent in the air, a foot away from the compartment door. Ms. Powell edged toward it, her face stern with concentration, and I put my hand out, searching for the catch and pull of the new frequency. She checked her watch again. “On three. I'll pull you through, so hold tight.”

“Got it.”

“One . . . two . . . three!”

She lunged forward and I was dragged in her wake, the cacophony of the multiverse swallowing me. An instant later we were through both the pivot and the doors, stumbling down the aisle of the next compartment. The seats were crammed full, but nobody batted an eye at our appearance. Ms. Powell leaned weakly against the door we'd circumvented.

“They say it gets easier,” she said, “But I've been doing it my whole life, and I always think it's going to be my last Walk.”

I sank down onto an empty seat, my knees wobbly. “I'm not sure I can do that again. What if we'd gotten the timing wrong?”

“Some questions are better left unanswered.” The train jolted to a stop, the station visible through the windows. Two guys—nearly identical with their buzz cuts, broad shoulders, and a distinct lack of neck—were standing on the platform, scrutinizing everyone who exited the train. They had the same stance you saw rent-a-cops use—flat stare, feet spread, hands behind their back—but their heads were tilted to the side.

“Our contact's a few cars down,” Ms. Powell said. “We'll go as soon as everyone's settled.”

I flattened myself against the wall as a group of chattering senior citizens entered. I glanced out the window again, but the rent-a-twins were gone.

The train started with a jerk, and people shuffled into the seats. Ms. Powell began making her way along the center aisle. I trailed behind, distracted by all the pivots created by the new passengers.

Unease rippled through me. If a single person made contact, the entire train would see us.

We made our way across the compartment and into the next vestibule, the chill air like a slap. Ms. Powell hauled open another set of doors, then stopped. I peered over her shoulder, curious about the delay. Halfway down the compartment, a harried-­looking mom was wrangling two rambunctious toddlers and an enormous stroller. She'd managed to block the entire aisle, take up four seats, and spill Cheerios everywhere. They crunched underfoot as the train swayed. The other passengers tsked and gaped, but nobody offered to help.

The doors at the far end of the car slid open, revealing the guys from the platform. They stepped inside, forming a surly barricade, and my uneasiness grew.

Ms. Powell pointed to the upper level. “Let's wait up there till this clears out.”

I backed into the staircase, the stainless steel walls cold and claustrophobic. Peering around the corner, I saw the men
scrutinizing each seat, every face. One of them closed his eyes and tilted his head.

“We need to reach our contact,” Ms. Powell said. “You're scheduled to jump in a few minutes.”

My nerves stretched tighter at her words. The creak-clatter of the train, the passengers' conversations, the static and blare, the pitch of the world—it was overwhelming. I tried to focus on Ms. Powell's instructions, but then, unmistakably, I caught a wisp of the Key World's frequency.

“Something's wrong with the pitch,” I said. Squeezing my eyes shut, I cocked my head to the side and listened closely.

Just like the rent-a-twins.

My eyes snapped open.

“Walkers!” I hissed, ducking back in the stairwell. “The guys by the door.”

Ms. Powell froze, then glanced casually at the end of the compartment. “How can you—”

“The one on the left is listening.” I knew the motion, because I'd done it a zillion times. “He's trying to pick up our frequency.”

And judging from the way they were moving toward us—steps slow and menacing—they'd found it.

“Did they follow us?” I asked.

“No. I was very careful. They could have followed our contact. Or someone tipped them off.”

The stroller-toting mom was still blocking the aisle, but not for long.

“They might not know there's two of us,” Ms. Powell said.
“Head back the way we came, and get off at the next station. I'll deal with the guards.”

“How? With your baton? What about finding Simon? What about your contact?”

“Simon will be kept safe. But we can't afford to lose you, either.”

The conductor called out the next stop, and the upper-level passengers began collecting their bags, shuffling toward the stairs. In a moment I'd be forced into view.

“Go,” she hissed. “Go now!”

I pulled up my hood and kept my back to the guards, hoping the other passengers would block me from sight. Tugging the door open, I chanced a quick look back. Stroller Mom had cleared out of the way. One of the guards put a hand to his hip, revealing the stun gun there.

The Consort's enforcement branch didn't carry regular guns. Too risky—a stray bullet could hit a bystander. Few things created an Echo as strong as an unexpected death, and they wanted to avoid such things at all costs.

They wouldn't kill us. They'd capture us. Put us in a cell like Monty's, drain in the floor, restraints on the table, and find out what we knew.

I ducked into the next car, twisting to avoid the other passengers, and ran through as many compartments as I could.

The train squealed to a stop. The doors slid open. I jumped to the pavement, glancing around wildly. Several cars back, one of the guards climbed down, Ms. Powell slung over his shoulder.
Two more Walkers approached him, and I dove back into the vestibule before they spotted me.

Guards must have been waiting at every platform from here into the city. If I tried to leave, they'd hear my Key World signal and track me down. If they could ID me, they wouldn't even have to give chase. They could wait until I went home—or go after my family.