The Boy Who Knew Everything (17 page)

The stairs curved up to the second floor. As he raced upward he spotted Abigail pacing at the other end of the hall, but said nothing to her and kept moving toward his mark.

The roof was dark, the cold night air crisp, but not harsh. A strong wind whipped around Harrington, who silently searched the area. He wanted to catch them by surprise. They were children, but children like these could never be underestimated.

He found them huddled by one side, peering over the edge. Aletha was holding on to Conrad's hand, looking up at him with a trusting expression on her face. It was the same expression he'd seen on Conrad's face when he was a very small boy. It triggered a memory in Harrington, and he stayed in the shadows watching them as he recalled Conrad's second birthday. Abigail had thrown a fancy shindig to celebrate the big day and had chosen a superhero theme. She'd arranged for Harrington to be in a Superman costume and had found a matching Superman costume for two-year-old Conrad. All afternoon Harrington had carried his son around in his arms while guests cooed over how much alike they were and how proud he must be to have such an adorable child. At one point little Conrad was overcome by all the activity, and he had taken his son inside.

Harrington had sat down on the nursery floor and quietly played a game of snap with Conrad. Sounds of the party wafted up from below, but they just sat, the two of them together in their own little world, needing nothing else but each other's company. Conrad won the first hand and the second. Harrington had never felt so proud of his son or so close to him. He felt as though he would watch over Conrad and protect him with all his might and with everything that he was. He would see to it that his son had a different life—a better life—and he would give Conrad the best of himself.

As Harrington was sitting lost in thought, Conrad had pulled out an electronic alphabet toy. It was designed to ask the child a simple question to which the child could respond by pressing a button. Conrad did this a few times and quickly grew bored. Turning the machine over, he opened the back access panel and began pulling wires off the main control panel. The intensity of the expression on Conrad's face caught Harrington's full attention. He watched as his young son quickly reprogrammed the machine, replaced the panel, and turned it over.

“Hello,” the toy said.

“Hello,” Conrad responded. “I want to talk to someone in South America.”

“I can help you with that,” the toy affirmed. “Dialing now.” A dial tone was heard and then the sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the distance.

“Hola,”
said a voice.

“Hola,”
Conrad responded.
“¿Cómo estás?”

For the first time in his life Harrington felt a pain detonate in the back of his skull. It was so strong he crumpled, gasping his way through it until the pain transmuted from pain into an intense horror—a horror of his son. With the urgency of a mortal danger he felt compelled—

“Hang up!”
he barked.

Conrad turned to his father, surprised and confused. “It's a new friend.”

“Estoy bien,”
the friend was saying.
“¿Y tu?”

“Hang up
now
!” Harrington hit the toy with murderous intent: he would kill that voice inside it. He smashed it savagely against a table until the voice from South America was gone and pieces were shattered everywhere across the floor. He stopped when there was nothing left and he was breathless and his Superman outfit was ripped.

“Don't ever let me catch you doing anything like that again,” he growled. He couldn't look at his son now.

“But I made it better,” Conrad explained.

Harrington stormed out of the room and Conrad trailed after him on his tiny legs, his Superman cape fluttering. “Dad,” he pleaded. “Dad.”

And now a full ten years later, the exact same disgust and anger mixed with physical pain was coursing wildly through Harrington as he watched Conrad, except this time Conrad was with Aletha and that made it worse. He pushed against the back of his skull uselessly with a shaking hand, beads of sweat popping from his forehead until he could contain himself no longer. Lunging forward, he burst from the shadows and snatched hold of Aletha's small arm. She jumped in fright, wincing.

Piper screamed.

Conrad hadn't been expecting his father, but he wasn't surprised to see him, either. He regarded him—saw the way his tie had been roughly pulled apart and dangled about his neck and the way his top button had been torn off in frustration. He saw the evening suit and his polished shoes, but mainly he saw the way Harrington's eyes shone with manic rage.

“Hello, Father,” he said calmly.

“Don't call me that,” Harrington snapped. “You aren't welcome here.”

Angry heat rose on Conrad's cheeks. “Aletha doesn't want to stay with you. I'm taking her with me.”

“You aren't going anywhere.” Harrington twisted Aletha's arm and she whimpered, her face contorting with pain.

“Let her go,” Piper demanded, rising into the air and thrusting forward.

Harrington lashed out with his free hand, capturing Piper.

Piper bucked and revolted but Harrington held tight. When Piper's arm was bent behind her back he twisted it away from her socket.

“Stop! You're breaking her arm.” Furious, Conrad charged at Harrington, hitting him at a precise angle to knock him off balance. Harrington lurched backward toward the edge of the roof. Piper yanked herself free but in doing so tugged at Harrington, changing his trajectory. Harrington crashed into the railing, and before Conrad's horrified eyes, the force of his fall sent Aletha soaring into the air and over the railing.

Even as she fell, Aletha was silent.

Piper shot down like an arrow. The child was moving fast but she was small and light and Piper scooped her out of the night before she was halfway to the ground. Aletha wound her arms around Piper's neck and held tight.

“I won't let you fall,” Piper whispered.

“Fly away, Piper,” Conrad called, leaning over the railing, weak with relief to see that Aletha was safe. “Get Aletha out of here!”

Piper could see that Harrington was back on his feet and bearing down on Conrad, but there was no time to argue. She ascended and flew fast. Conrad could only track her path for a few seconds before his father grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. His father was at least twice his size but Conrad was too furious to feel fear.

“How unfortunate there aren't any more toddlers and girls here for you to pick on,” Conrad spat.

“Shut your mouth,” Harrington growled.

“So you're going to throw me off the roof now too?” Conrad jeered. And indeed, Harrington was bending him dangerously over the railing, his hands shaking with rage. “This is really presidential, Dad.”

“Stop talking. Don't call me
Dad
.” Harrington shook Conrad. “You are forcing me to do this. I told you to stop.
Stop
. Stop it. There is a reason. But you won't stop and now this.
I must make you stop
.”

Harrington had pushed Conrad so far over the edge that the only thing that was preventing him from falling was his crushing grip on the boy's shoulders.

“Tell me this. What happened to your heart, Dad?” Conrad held his father's gaze fearlessly. “Who took it away from you?”

Harrington's breath came in choked gasps. “You stupid, stupid child. You understand nothing.”

“I understand that you want to throw me off this roof.”

Harrington's face contorted, a reflection of the war being fought inside his head. He let out several angry puffs and wrestled with himself. When dominance was established he acted, pushing Conrad out the remaining inch, and released him.

Time turned strangely slow. It was not more than a second, but in that time Conrad was aware of the way the vein in his father's forehead bulged and considered the pain in his shoulders. Conrad was falling when he saw his father's head violently jerk to the side like someone had hit him hard. In the next moment his father's body collapsed, his eyes rolling back as he fell to the ground unconscious.

How strange
, Conrad thought. And then something grabbed him—

Conrad was no longer falling; his shirt was being pulled and held him firmly in place. Conrad looked but saw nothing and nobody around him.

“J.,” Conrad said with relief.

J. materialized, panting like he'd been running or climbing or both. He had grabbed a handful of Conrad's shirt and was pulling him back onto the roof. Taking J.'s forearm, Conrad steadied himself, regained his feet.

“You can call me Jeston,” J. said, leaning over, gulping for breath.

“J.'s a good name.” Conrad shrugged, also breathless. “It suits you.”

J. snorted. “You're full of surprises.”

“Coming from you that means something.”

Conrad took a moment to gather himself—his heart felt violent and his breath came out in steam-engine puffs. It wasn't every day that your father tries to throw you off the roof of the White House, and it was a lot to process, even for Conrad.

“How did you know that we'd be here?”

J. shrugged. “Like I said, I look out for you and Piper.”

“So you were spying on us.” Conrad spoke without anger.

J. smiled. “Spying is … a good word for it. Yes. I like to spy.”

Conrad smiled and shook his head. “Just as long as we have that clear. Well, I guess you saved my life.”

“You're welcome,” J. said briskly. “But if we don't get out of here now I may have to save it again.”

Conrad nodded his agreement and saw that his father was still lying motionless. J. had hit him on the side of the head and he had fallen in a limp puddle. In the moonlight, Conrad thought that his father looked peaceful, for once.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“Check his breathing.” J. pulled rope from his backpack. “We've got to get out of here.”

With effort Conrad swallowed his rage and bent over his father's body, feeling his chest.

“His breathing is shallow,” Conrad reported. “And his heartbeat is irregular.”

Conrad's hand caught on something hard outlined by Harrington's starched white shirt. When he pressed against it, it slid free, falling between the buttons.

“What's that?” J. leaned in.

Conrad held a dark metal medallion in the shape of a star on a necklace. The workmanship was distinctive and the fine metal was twisted around a stone that sat in the center of the piece. Holding it up so that it caught the moonlight, Conrad saw that the stone glowed red.

“It's a bloodstone!” He yanked the chain, breaking it free from his father's neck, and studied it hastily. At the center of the bloodstone was a throbbing glow, like a tiny heartbeat. “It's alive. The stone is alive.”

Harrington began to gasp loudly.

Conrad looked past the bloodstone to Harrington, his mouth open, his chest bucking with each strangled breath. Conrad saw that his father was breathing in synchronicity with the beating heart of the bloodstone. As the bloodstone began to grow dim and the heartbeat lost its rhythm Harrington took fewer and fewer breaths.

“They're connected.” Conrad showed J. “Look!”

If the light in the bloodstone was dying J. understood that Harrington was in danger. “Your father's heart is going to stop.” J. had no particularly good feelings for Harrington, but didn't want to see the man die, either. “What do we do?”

Conrad made quick calculations and then suddenly swung the chain around, slamming the medallion to the ground. In the next moment he stomped with all his might on the stone, crushing it. An explosion of red light erupted from beneath his foot, throwing him backward.

At the same time Harrington's whole body jerked, and his eyes popped open and locked hold on Conrad's face. He sucked air as though emerging from the depths of the ocean.

“Save me,” he begged.

 

CHAPTER

23

Harrington couldn't get to his feet, but his body rocked with frustrated effort. He appeared to be delirious.

“Don't take me away,” he moaned. “Don't make me leave my home. I want to stay with Mother.” He was holding himself like a helpless child. “Where is my mother? What have you done to her? I must find her—save her.”

J. and Conrad remained still, riveted; whatever was happening, they didn't wish to disturb it in any way.

“Mother told me about the prophecy,” this strange new Harrington said. “I know about the girl who can fly and the boy who knows everything, and they will save me.” His face, suddenly boyish, turned defiant with hope. “They will save us all.”

As quickly as the mood had come over him it melted away and he collapsed into himself. After a brief stillness his body jolted several times as though rebooting. They watched as his muscles regained tension and he came into himself once more.

“Owww,” Harrington moaned, struggling to sit. His hand went to his head where J. had hit him. “What—?” Harrington looked around, blinking as the floodgates of memory opened wide. “It's like—” His palm pressed against his head as though something inside of it was seeping out. “It's all coming back to me. The memories are so fast—so bright. My mother sacrificed everything for me. There is a sword in the sun. My mother is trapped in the sword in the sun. She called me Peter. My name is Peter. Yes, I remember now.”

He looked at Conrad. “You are?” The moment he asked the question pieces of his brain snapped together like Legos; old pathways long dormant lit up.

“You are my son. Conrad.” A softness covered his face. “I've missed you so much. I'm so glad you've come home.”

With glistening eyes Harrington reached out his arms to his son, gasping at the pain the movement caused. “Conrad!”