The Hound of Rowan (23 page)

Max whipped his head around as he heard a distant burst of cheers from the party.

“You and your father were in greater peril that day than you know. The Enemy has been active at art museums. They are looking for special paintings and special children, and they might have found both that day.”

Max was stunned.

“Were you in my house?” Max stammered. “Was that you upstairs?”

The shadowy man shook his head.

“When I arrived, I saw the Enemy fleeing through the alleys. I thought they might have abducted you and gave chase,” said the man. “But they eluded me. By the time I could return, your home was closely watched. I'm sorry I could not get there sooner—I can seldom take the fastest way.”

“What about the airport?” Max hissed impatiently, a strange mix of emotions starting to well up within him.

“The Enemy was waiting for you outside those doors. I knew if you saw me, you would find another way.”

“So what are you saying? That you saved me that day?” Max whispered.

The man smiled for the first time, his sharp features softening momentarily into a kindly expression.

“You'll do the same for me one day, eh?”

The man suddenly frowned and crouched low.

“I have to go,” he hissed. “They're coming.”

The man withdrew silently into the shadows; camouflaging hues spread over his body until only his face was visible.

“Will I see you again?” whispered Max. “What's your name?”

The man nodded and gave a wry smirk. “Call me Ronin.”

The face disappeared.

A moment later, Max yelped with fright as Cooper appeared next to him. The Agent held a long, cruel-looking knife of dull gray metal. Max started to speak, but Cooper raised his hand quickly to silence him. He never took his eyes off the woods. They waited in silence for several moments before Cooper slipped the knife back into his sleeve. He towered over Max. Cooper's voice was low and calm with a touch of a cockney accent.

“You were talking just now. Who were you talking to?”

“N-nobody,” stammered Max; he had not even been sure if Cooper
could
speak.

Cooper's response was flat and immediate. “You're lying.”

“What? I got in an argument and I came out here to blow off some steam!”

Cooper stared at Max for several moments. He slowly drew his knife from his sleeve and stepped off the path to the very spot where Ronin had been only minutes earlier.

“Get inside.”

The Agent issued the command in a soft, even voice just before he disappeared entirely.

                  
12                  

S
ECRET
P
RISONS

M
ax tensed his calves for a moment and scanned the room. A bright green circle appeared on the floor some six feet away. He leapt and landed on it, careful to keep his feet within its boundaries. A heavy ball the size of a cantaloupe whizzed toward his head; he glimpsed it in his peripheral vision and ducked just in time. A smaller green circle appeared off to his right; Max jumped sideways and landed on his tiptoes, deflecting another ball out of the air with a slap of his hand. Instantly, another circle appeared ahead; this one was moving and smaller than a Frisbee. Max sprang forward, landed lightly within the circle on one foot, and promptly pivoted to boot aside the small, hard ball that came rocketing at him from behind.

Once Max had finished the scenario, he wiped the sweat from his brow and went to the door. Mr. Vincenti stood just outside, studying the display.

“Hmmm,” he mused, running a hand over his trim white beard. “I see you've scored over a forty on your last six scenarios.”

Max grinned and grabbed the towel that he had left on the doorknob.

“I also see you're avoiding the strategy-based scenarios,” murmured Mr. Vincenti, scrolling through several screens. “That will have to change.”

“They're not as fun,” panted Max.

“They're not as fun? Or you're not as good at them?” said Mr. Vincenti, raising an eyebrow and clearing the screen. “Come along, Max. I'd like a word.”

Several older students waved good-bye and wished them a happy holiday as Max and Mr. Vincenti walked up the forest path back toward the Manse, making pleasant chitchat. The cold air made Max's nose tingle. Once they were in the clearing, he thought how different Rowan looked in winter: Old Tom and Maggie under blankets of snow, the dark leafless forest, and the ocean rolling cold and gray. Max glanced at the gunmetal sky that promised more snow and the small white holiday lights twined about the Manse's hedges and windows.

“How'd your finals go?” asked Mr. Vincenti as they climbed the outer steps.

“Okay, I think,” said Max, waving good-bye to the departing students. Except for David, all of Max's friends had already gone. “Mystics and math were tough. Strategy was all right, but I think I got the logic sections wrong….”

“How was Etiquette?” asked Mr. Vincenti, leading Max into a little sitting room off the great hall.

“Who knows? That stuff seems kind of stupid.”

“It's not,” said Mr. Vincenti, shaking his head and gesturing for Max to take a seat. “Oh, I know Sir Wesley can be over the top, but knowing how to act in a given situation is a very valuable skill. You'll need it if you ever decide to become an Agent—and I'm sure they'll be clamoring for you to become one someday. Anyway, I asked all the instructors to inform me if one of my advisees was in danger of failing a course. You're safe for now.”

Mr. Vincenti eased himself into a deep armchair and tapped his fingers against his knee. He seemed uncharacteristically somber and hesitant. Max listened to the small clock on the mantel tick until his advisor finally spoke.

“Max, I don't entirely know how to say this….”

An icy calm came over Max. He glanced down at his wet shoes. The conversation that informed him of his mother's disappearance had begun in much the same way.

“What is it?” he murmured. “Please, just say what it is. I already know it's bad.”

“We don't believe you should travel home for the holidays,” said Mr. Vincenti with a sigh. “We think it's best if you stay here at Rowan.”

Max did not speak for several seconds, but simply stared at Mr. Vincenti.

“Why?” he finally asked, trying to control his temper.

“You know why,” said Mr. Vincenti. “We think it could be dangerous. It's for your own good.”

“What about the others?” snapped Max, standing up. “
They
get to go home!”

“They are not
you,
” said Mr. Vincenti gently. “They have not been targeted by the Enemy. The Enemy does not know where they live….”

“Did you make this decision?” asked Max evenly.

“No, Max. This comes straight from the Director—”

Max scowled and bolted from the room. In the foyer, he glared at the luggage piling up near the doors, then thudded down the hallway toward Ms. Richter's office. His face burning, Max flung the door open.

“How can you keep me here?”
he yelled.

Ms. Richter sat at her desk, gazing at him with her hands folded under her chin.

“Please lower your voice and sit down,” she said quietly.

Max stood in the doorway several moments, breathing hard and watching the steam curl from a cup of tea on Ms. Richter's desk. Snow was falling again outside.

“You can't keep me here,” Max said at last, managing to smother most of the rage out of his voice.

Ms. Richter's face looked very tired and downcast. “Please sit down, Max,” she said. “I would like to discuss this with you.”

“Why'd you send Mr. Vincenti, then?” asked Max, his anger rising once again.

“Because I had a very important meeting that could not be moved. Please sit.”

Max glanced at a bit of melting snow on the room's cream-colored rug; there were shallow footprints in the snow outside the Director's office.

“Why couldn't they come by the front door?” he demanded. “What's so secret?” He nearly yielded to the temptation to tell her that he knew all about the missing Potentials, that she was not nearly as clever as she liked to appear.

“I understand that you are angry,” she said wearily. “If you wish to continue standing and yelling at me, you may do so. Or you may sit and receive answers to your questions.”

Max heard footsteps behind him; Mr. Vincenti stepped into the room, his hands in his pockets.

“I'm sorry, Gabrielle,” he said.

“Oh, it's all right, Joseph—I understand completely. Please have a seat and perhaps together we can convince Max to hear us.”

Max glowered at the two of them, sitting so calm and composed. Taking a deep breath, he sat on the edge of a chair.

“I have to go see my dad,” he pleaded. “He needs me.”

“I wish you
could
go home,” said Ms. Richter softly. “That is the truth, Max. It breaks my heart to keep a child from their parent—holidays or otherwise. I regret that we could not tell you sooner, but the fact is that we were exploring options that might have made such a visit possible. I'm sorry to say those options do not exist.”

“I'll be just fine,” said Max. “You can have an Agent watch my house….”

Ms. Richter shook her head.

“I will speak plainly, Max, so you understand and we can put this matter behind us,” said the Director. Her face was grim and the softness in her voice had evaporated. “We have analyzed and discussed this situation thoroughly. You would
not be fine.
The Enemy would come for you, and not just ‘Mrs. Millen' and whoever else was in your house that day. A tremendous allocation of resources would be required to ensure your safety, and I simply cannot spare them at this time. You would endanger yourself, your father, and potentially many others. It is an unpleasant decision I have to make, but I have made it.”

Max listened carefully, weighing every word before he spoke.

“My father would be in danger?” he asked.

“Yes, Max. I am afraid he would be,” said Ms. Richter, her voice gentle once again.

Max bowed his head; when he spoke, his voice was quiet and thick with tears.

“So, I'm a prisoner,” he said. “I can't even go
home
!”

“Oh, Max,” said Mr. Vincenti, patting his shoulder. “It won't be so bad! You're not the only student spending the break here, and we all celebrate the Yuletide together in the Sanctuary.”

Max ignored Mr. Vincenti and stared instead at a diploma over Ms. Richter's shoulder. He kept his voice calm and even as he spoke.

“What lie should I tell my father?”

Ms. Richter sighed and placed her palms flat on her desk.

“That you failed your final exam in Mathematics and need to redo several units if you wish to avoid spending the summer here,” she answered.

Max bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. He wanted to shatter the arms of the slender chair as he got up to leave. He paused in the doorway.

“But I'll be spending the summer here anyway, won't I?” he asked, staring down the long hallway toward the foyer.

“I hope that will be your decision, Max. Not mine.”

         

Mum and Bob were in the kitchens dicing vegetables for soup when Max came in to make his phone call. Mum hummed merrily to herself as she worked, but Bob's somber frown suggested he knew why Max was there. Wiping his hands on his apron, the ogre whispered something to Mum and led her quietly out of the kitchen.

Max's father answered on the second ring.

“Are you busy right now, Dad? I'm sorry to bug you at the office.”

“No, no, no—I'm glad you called! In fact, your ears must be burning, because Mr. Lukens and I were just talking about you. I mentioned you were coming home from Rowan and he just about dropped his coffee mug!”

“You're kidding,” said Max, sliding down the wall to slump against a large sack of potatoes.

“Nope,” his father said excitedly. “He was very impressed—said Rowan's as
exclusive
as it gets and that he's got a niece that might be interested in going. Isn't that great?”

“Super.”

“Oh, and another thing,” said his father, lowering his voice. “He wants to talk to you about it at their Christmas party—only the
bigwigs
ever get invited to that shindig!”

Max began thumping his head dully against the hard wall behind him; he wished the line would go dead. “Dad, I've got some bad news….”

“What is it?” his father asked, the enthusiasm in his voice cooling. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” said Max, dropping his head between his knees. “I bombed my math final—I'm failing Mathematics.”

A relieved laugh burst through the receiver.

“Oh my gosh! You about gave me a heart attack! Is that it? Max, I think I failed algebra
twice
before it made any sense….”

“No, Dad—you don't understand. I have to stay
here
over the break—otherwise I fail the class and have to stay here for summer school.”

There was a long pause at the other end; Max braced himself.

“What?”
Scott McDaniels exclaimed. “Are you saying you're
not
coming home for Christmas?”

“Yes. I'm so sorry—”

“Put someone from that school on the phone.”

Max flinched as the words spat rapid-fire out of the receiver. Reflexively, he craned his neck to see if any adults were present. He held his breath a moment, telling himself over and over again that he was keeping his father safe.