Whirlwind (23 page)
Xander shook his head. He grabbed David’s arm and pulled him backward into the dark bathroom. The boys stepped into the tub and slowly pulled the shower curtain. Each plastic hook seemed to
scream
a grinding protest along the metal rod.
David kept patting the air with his hand, telling Xander to
be quiet!
When the curtain fully shielded them, David whispered, “The closet, Xander. Why not the closet?”
“No time,” Xander said. “I’m not going through
with
you, and I’m not waiting around while
you
go through.”
They had already had that discussion, the one that conjured the image of their bodies melding into one hideous mass on the other side.
Voices in the hallway: someone whispered, Phemus rumbled out a reply in that strange language Wuzzy had captured. It seemed so foreign to David’s ears, it hurt to hear it.
David rose on his tiptoes to less-than-whisper in Xander’s ear. “If that wasn’t Phemus upstairs, who was it?”
Xander put his finger over his lips again, hushing him.
Footsteps came down the hall, quiet, slow. The way the stranger had whispered, and now the stealthy inspection— David was sure the intruders suspected someone else was in the house.
David focused on not shifting his weight, for fear of making the tub creak. He knew Xander was doing the same. He tried to slow his breathing, but that wasn’t going to happen.
He opened his mouth wide, thinking it would give the air more room to be quiet.
An idea occurred to him: the best thing to do was to jump through the shower curtain, screaming like a wild man, and simply plow through the men in the hall. He could do it.
Just today, he’d faced a Confederate assault, a torturer, and Hannibal’s entire Carthaginian army. What were two men?
All he and Xander had to do was surprise them long enough to slam past and run out the front door. That’s all . . .
But one of them was Phemus, a brute so massive he was less like a man than a walking wall with fists. The other was probably one of his equally big and nasty brethren. Trying to run past them would be like a Nintendo game—Mario diving into a passageway of cutting blades, falling boulders, and fire-breathing dragons. It usually took a few bloody deaths to figure it out, and in real life David had only one to give.
What was I thinking?
In the hall, a floorboard creaked.
David grabbed a handful of his brother’s shirt and closed his eyes.
The footsteps passed the bathroom, disappeared into their bedroom. Somebody else moved in the hall, quietly lifting the chair and setting it down. The first person walked out of the bedroom and into the spare room. The other crept back toward the staircase, maybe intending to check out Toria’s room, then Mom and Dad’s.
The first man came back into the hall. He said something. It was Phemus, that rumbly gibberish. His footsteps moved to the bathroom door.
No one in here
, David thought, concentrating with all his mental energy to
push
the words into Phemus’s head.
Just an empty bathroom. Walk on by.
It worked! Phemus walked on.
For some unknown reason—excitement, relief, a twitch— David’s left foot turned just a little:
squeeeeak
.
Phemus stopped moving. When he started again, it was to return to the bathroom.
The light flicked on.
FRIDAY, 10:57 A.M.
“I really appreciate your seeing me like this, Mike,” Ed King said.
He sat in a chair in front of the desk of his old friend. He looked over his shoulder at Toria, who was gazing in wonder at the artifacts arrayed on bookcases, in display cases, and mounted on the walls. There were masks, maps, and fragments of ancient papyri. Volumes and volumes of books, some of which Mike had authored.
Ed looked at his friend, hitched a thumb toward Toria, and whispered, “She’s a good kid. She won’t touch anything.”
Mike Peterson waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure of it. Who knows? Maybe she’ll catch the bug, want to spend her life unraveling the secrets of ancient languages.”
“Maybe,” Toria said politely.
Located in Dodd Hall on the UCLA campus, the Department of Classics boasted experts in all the subfields of philology: paleography, classical linguistics, Byzantine studies, medieval Latin . . . Ed couldn’t even remember all of them, and at the moment, he didn’t care. He had come to find out about only one language, spoken by one person—Phemus.
He pushed his hands into the overnight bag on the floor and pulled out Wuzzy.
Mike smiled when he saw the bear. “Okay . . .” he said. He pushed away mounds of paper on his desk.
Ed positioned Wuzzy on the clean spot of desktop, facing Mike. He fiddled with the controls on the back.
“Wait,” Mike said, holding up his hand. “Before I hear it again, what can you tell me about the speaker?”
“Almost nothing,” Ed said. “I can give you a physical description, but it may not be pertinent.”
Mike nodded. He leaned across the desk, closed his eyes, and turned his ear toward the bear. “Go ahead.”
FRIDAY, AT THE SAME TIME
David trembled, much as he had in the freezing Alps, but this time with fear.
A huge shadow moved on the other side of the shower curtain, like a whale under the surface of the ocean. The floor creaked under Phemus’s feet.
Xander was looking around. David knew what he wanted: a weapon, something to protect themselves. But they were standing in a tub! They could use the curtain rod, maybe, but Phemus would probably snatch it out of Xander’s hands, eat it, and continue to the main course of King-Kid Fricassee.
David reached to the back edge of the tub and picked up a bottle of shampoo. He positioned his thumb to pop it open as soon as he had to.
Go for the eyes
, he thought.
Smear it in. Better than nothing.
The other man called from somewhere down the hallway. It sounded like
“Zikor”—
and David recognized the voice: Taksidian! No wonder his footsteps sounded wrong. When the man who had exited the antechamber had come down the third-floor stairs, David had pictured barefooted Phemus.
The big man turned. His broad shoulder caught the curtain, pushing it open. David and Xander stood exposed, staring at Phemus’s back. The man lumbered to the doorway. One dinner-plate-sized hand pressed against the wall above the door; the other gripped the frame. He leaned through.
“Mas teleionoyn?”
Phemus went through, turned, and disappeared. His thumping feet, the creaking of the floor moved away down the hall.
Taksidian whispered, a barely audible mumble. Then his booted feet descended the main staircase.
David whispered, “That’s Taksidian. He’s using the portals when we’re not here.”
Xander nodded. He lifted his leg over the side of the tub and stepped out.
David reached out, tapped him, and furiously shook his head:
no!
Xander gave him a thumbs-up. He walked slowly to the door.
David stepped out, knowing he was going to trip or knock something over or otherwise give themselves away.
Xander leaned his head through the doorway. David looked around his brother.
Phemus was standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at the foyer. The front door opened, filling the air with sunlight. It slammed closed. Phemus sighed and trudged slowly toward the back hall.
Xander pulled back into the bathroom. He grabbed David’s shoulder; the excitement in his eyes sent a chill over David’s skin. His brother whispered, “This is it, our big chance.”
“For
what
?”
“To follow him. All we have to do—”
“Follow him?” David jerked back. “What’s wrong with you? I thought—”
“Shhh, shhh,” Xander said. “Hear me out.” He jabbed a thumb toward Phemus. “He’s heading home,
his
home—
where he took Mom
! Somehow, he goes in and out without using the antechamber items. We’ll never know where he goes unless we go with him.”
David batted Xander’s hand off his shoulder. This was crazy talk, as bad as David taking on the torturer. He said, “We
will
find out where he’s from. Without doing this! Dad’s with that professor right now. He’s—”
“He’s only
hoping
the guy can tell him where Phemus came from,” Xander said. “How close do you think he’ll get to pinpointing the very place, the very time . . . a hundred possibilities? A thousand?” He peered around the corner, came back. “We can find out
for sure
, the
exact
place, the
exact
time. No messing around. Dae, if
he
can come and go, we can too. We’ll slip through right after him, take a look around, and come right back.”
David bit his lip. “I don’t know.”
“I
do
. Mom might still be there. Once we know what world it is, we can focus on it, find a way to get back, keep looking for her there.”
David closed his eyes. Xander was making sense. Dangerous sense, but sense.
“And think about it,” Xander said. “We’ll probably figure out what we need to keep Phemus out. If that’s the only thing we learn, it’s a lot.”
“But Xander,” David said, “
now
? We just hit three worlds. I hurt everywhere. I’m beat, more than I ever have been.”
“It has to be now.” Xander leaned past him, opened the medicine cupboard behind the mirror, and took out a bottle. He popped off the top. “Here.”
David held out his hand, and Xander tapped two Tylenol into it.
Xander stepped out of the bathroom and turned back. “I have to do this, Dae,” he whispered. “With or without you.”
David wanted to punch him. His brother knew David wouldn’t let him go alone, not after Jesse told them to stay together, not after all the times they’d survived only because the other was there.
Xander moved down the hall, fast and quiet. David moaned to himself. He tossed the pills into his mouth, slipped into the hall, and hurried to catch up.
FRIDAY, 11:00 A.M.
After Phemus’s last syllable came out of Wuzzy’s speaker, Mike Peterson didn’t move. He held his position—ear angled toward the bear, eyes closed—for a good twenty seconds. Finally he leaned back and looked at Ed. His fingers pushed into his lips, which slowly spread out behind them into a smile. He said, “This is rich.”
“What is?” Ed said, hopefully. “Do you recognize it?”
“Not precisely. But I can tell you it’s a language no one alive has ever heard, let alone
speaks
.” He leaned forward, grinning. “Who put you up to this? Was it Jackson? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“I don’t understand,” Ed said.
Toria came up beside him, put her hand on his arm.
Mike pointed at Wuzzy. “It’s very good. Technically perfect.
Of course, people have argued about the precise phonology for . . . well, forever.”
Ed blinked a few times, trying to follow. “So, you know it . . . or not?”
Mike frowned. He leaned back in his chair. “The general epoch, not the exact culture.”
Ed felt his shoulders sag.
Toria said, “That’s all right, Daddy.”
Ed asked Mike, “Is there
any
way to pin it down?”
Mike squinted at him. “This isn’t a joke? Not Jackson?
Kuiper?”
Dad held his hand up. “Mike, I assure you this is not a joke. Look, even if you think it is, do me a favor. Tell me what language it is . . . please.”
Mike stared at him a long time, seeming to consider whether to play along. Finally he adjusted himself in his chair and said, “Let me show you something.” He gripped a computer monitor on the side of his desk and rotated it so all of them could see it.
“Some colleagues of mine—philologists at universities all over the world—have been working on a computer program. We built a massive database of known and even rumored languages. Our goal is to identify written language instantly, no matter when or where it was used. In other words, we scan a bit of an ancient manuscript or a photo of pictograms on a cave wall, and the computer will tell us, for example, that it’s proto-Canaanite or whatever. Sort of like the FBI’s computerized database of fingerprints, but with language.”
He grinned, obviously excited. “A side project that a few of us have been developing is the application of phoneme inventories to the writing. It attempts to apply syllable structure, stress, accent, intonation . . . the rules database is enormous. I mean just the phonotactics alone . . .”
Come on, come on,
Ed thought.
I just want to find my wife. Can you help me or not?
He tried to smile when Mike looked at him, but he knew his frustration was showing.
