No one said a word, their eyes glancing at the clock every few seconds. In eight minutes, it would be nine o’clock—when they expected the visitor.
Tick sat on the bed, his back resting on a stack of pillows he’d pushed against the wall. In his mind, he’d been picturing the stranger who’d dropped off the note, trying to decide if they’d ever met. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but all Tick could remember was how strange the man acted, sounding out each word and looking about nervously.
Three minutes to go.
“What do you think—” Paul whispered, but Sofia punched him on the arm, then made a slashing gesture at her neck. Paul winced as he rubbed his shoulder.
They’d been dying to talk about the note since dinner, but paranoia kept their mouths shut—except for the occasional slip up from Paul. The stranger’s message said people were listening, and now Tick couldn’t sneeze without wondering what the snoopers might think. If the note was even true in the first place.
A barely discernible click sounded as the big hand on the old-fashioned clock struck nine. All three of them turned their heads toward the room’s door, as if expecting the stranger to walk in precisely on time. He didn’t.
Several minutes went by with no sign of their visitor. Paul finally got out of his chair and paced the floor, shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath. He stopped at the desk and wrote a few words on the pad of paper provided by the hotel, then tore the piece off and showed it to Sofia. She shrugged, and then Paul brought it over to Tick.
Don’t we seem suspicious sitting here and not saying anything?
Tick nodded, but didn’t know what else they could do. If people were really spying on them, they’d certainly be alarmed at how silent their prey had become.
I wish the guy would just hurry up and get here, Tick thought.
Paul sat back down in his chair. A few more minutes passed. A shadow crossed over the small slit under the door, catching Tick’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He shifted on the bed and put his feet on the floor, leaning forward, expecting to hear a knock.
Nothing.
Tick exchanged questioning looks with Paul and Sofia, then got up and walked over to the door. It didn’t have a peephole, so Tick reached forward and slowly pushed down on the lever handle. A loud click filled the room like a clap of thunder; he squeezed his eyes shut, not even sure what he was afraid of.
After a few seconds of silence, he jerked the door open and looked into the hallway, ready to slam it shut again at any sign of trouble.
The stranger from the restaurant sat on the red-carpeted floor, his back against the opposite wall. He still wore the dark suit, his shoes so shiny that the hallway light reflected off them and into Tick’s eyes. As soon as he saw Tick, he put his right index finger to his lips—a reminder they weren’t supposed to talk.
Feeling uneasy, but unsure what else they could do, Tick stepped back and opened the door wide, gesturing with a sweep of his arm that the stranger should come in. The large man—bald head and all—got to his feet and entered the room, giving a quick nod to Paul and Sofia. Tick closed the door as quietly as he could.
The man sat on the bed, waving for the others to come and stand around him. As Tick and his friends obeyed, the stranger pulled out a photograph, a few pieces of paper, and a ballpoint pen. He’d already written one note and handed it to Tick along with the picture. In it, the man stood with Master George in front of the fireplace at the Grand Canyon Realitant complex, both of them with wide smiles; Muffintops perched on the mantle behind Master George’s right shoulder.
The message was clear: they could trust the guy.
Paul and Sofia crowded closer as they read the note together:
Your nanolocators done been hijacked. And this hotel is bugged like a bugger.
It’s not Master George winking you willy-nilly. Reginald Chu is behind everything.
You MUST keep passing that sucker’s tests.
At first, Tick felt like he was reading Spanish or French or Chinese—the words didn’t click inside his brain. Such a monumental statement surely couldn’t be said in a quickly scribbled note. He looked at the stranger, knowing his face showed the confusion he felt.
Master George’s friend rolled his eyes and wrote another message, hastily scratching the paper with the pen. Then he held it up for them to read:
You’ve been under the control of Reginald Chu
all along. He’s testing you. Not Master George.
It’s Chu—it’s all been Chu.
Something shuddered in Tick’s chest; the room swayed. Losing his balance, he stumbled backward, falling into the chair where Paul had been sitting earlier.
Everything they’d just been through . . . the pain they’d felt in the forest, the riddles, the metaspides, the weird tunnel with its beast? All of it had been orchestrated by Reginald Chu? They’d suspected all along it wasn’t Master George, but Chu? The man Rutger called the most evil in the universe?