Max watched as the car’s taillights shrank to small red dots before finally disappearing. David waited patiently near the gate as Nigel put a hand on Max’s shoulder.
“Happy birthday, Max,” said Nigel. “I’m very glad you could see your father, if just for a few hours. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to tell me anything you know about the irrepressible Mr. Lukens.”
“I don’t know,” said Max, fighting the heaviness in his heart. “He seems nice—he brought me a present.”
Nigel’s smile wavered.
“What was it, if I might pry?” asked the Recruiter.
“I don’t know yet,” said Max, retrieving the slim case from his pocket. “He told me to open it in private.”
“Max,” said Nigel, “that is a decidedly odd request. Do you mind if I have a look?”
Max shook his head. Nigel plucked the box from his hand and removed its silver ribbon. A moment later, Max saw a glint of gold as Nigel flipped open the black velvet lid. Inside was a jeweled dagger with a green handle. Nigel studied it a moment before his eyes widened in apparent recognition. The blood drained from his face.
“Dear God,” he muttered, fumbling in his pocket.
“What?” said Max as Nigel retrieved a slim phone and began frantically punching numbers. Nigel held up a finger for quiet.
“Gabrielle? Nigel. Abort the mission. Dear Lord—abort, abort, abort! I’ll explain everything—have to go!”
“Nigel!” Max yelled, feeling a queasy sense of panic. “What’s going on?”
Nigel ignored him and pressed another button on his phone.
“This is Nigel Bristow, Senior Recruiter. Emergency intercept requested of two subjects in black rental sedan bound for Logan Airport. First four characters of license plate are DL42…. Top priority! Apprehend both subjects—use caution and do not harm them!”
“Nigel!” Max screamed, trying to snatch the phone from the man’s hand.
Nigel hugged Max close to him.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, herding Max over to where David stood looking petrified. “But we need to get inside immediately.”
Clutching the dagger, Nigel led them toward the Manse, their footsteps spraying wet gravel as they ran.
16
ROWAN’S NEW RESIDENT
Max paced back and forth by the fountain, ignoring Miss Awolowo’s pleas that he sit. For the past two hours, David had sat quietly, trailing his fingers through the mist that rose like little wraiths from the fountain. A murder of crows took flight from the dark woods near the gate just before Max saw headlights emerge into the clearing. A limousine was making its way slowly along the road that bordered the ocean. Max kept his eyes on the approaching car even as he noticed Nigel descending the Manse’s front steps.
“Max, please listen to me,” the Recruiter said. “Your father is in that car, but—”
Max bolted up the drive, meeting the car halfway as it turned and made its way toward them. He smacked his hand against the black windows, but the car did not slow until it finally came to a stop near the fountain. Nigel looked helpless as he stepped between Max and the car.
“Max, please—let them do their jobs,” he pleaded.
The back doors to the limousine opened, and an unfamiliar man and woman emerged, followed by Cooper. Max looked through the open door and saw his father lying limp and still inside. Max’s hands shook uncontrollably.
“You!” he screamed at Cooper, trying to step past Nigel at the Agent. “What did you do to him?”
Cooper ignored Max and gestured to his companions to lift Mr. McDaniels out of the car. Max felt Nigel’s hands holding his shoulders.
“Max,” Nigel pleaded. “It’s going to be fine—”
Max shoved Nigel off to the side and rushed at Cooper.
The other man saw Max coming and moved to intercept him. Max reacted, ducking as the man’s arms reached out, then punching hard up and into the man’s ribs. Cooper stepped quickly around the car, putting it between Max and himself as the woman went to grab Max’s wrists. He was too quick, slipping out of her grasp and springing up onto the roof of the limousine. Cooper was calmly backing away toward the fountain, his face composed and unafraid; Max was determined to change that.
Max leapt.
Cooper stood unmoving as Max hurtled through the air. Suddenly, the Agent disappeared behind a wall of water as the fountain suddenly emptied itself to form a protective dome around him. Max shrieked as he landed on top of it. He clawed furiously at the improbably tough, shimmering surface to get at the shadowy, rippling figure behind it. The water began to hiss and steam, giving way before him. Max pried apart an opening and forced his head and arm through.
Cooper held a sheathed knife to Max’s throat.
“Poor choice,” the Agent whispered.
Suddenly, Cooper gritted his teeth, and the knife fell from his hand. Gasping, he dropped to his knees, crumpling to the ground like an aluminum can being crushed by invisible hands. Max was set gently on his feet by some unseen force as the barrier dissolved, its waters streaming over his shoes to fill the fountain once again.
Max saw David standing on the fountain’s rim, his face deadly serious as he focused on Cooper’s motionless body. A crowd had gathered on the front steps of the Manse, and Miss Awolowo was doing her best to get them back inside.
Max ran to his father.
Nigel and the woman held Mr. McDaniels between them; the man Max had punched sat propped against the limousine, holding his side and taking uneven breaths.
“Your father is fine, Max,” grunted Nigel, straining under Mr. McDaniels’s weight. “Unconscious, but fine. Lend us a hand and let’s take him to a guest room.”
Ignoring the stares and whispers, Max helped carry his father inside.
The next day, Scott McDaniels lay sleeping on top of a four-poster bed, wearing one of Bob’s enormous flannel shirts; it draped over his not insubstantial body like a nightgown. Max placed a fresh washcloth to his father’s forehead.
“Feeling better, Dad?”
His father smiled and squeezed Max’s hand.
“A little,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”
Max sat at a small desk and gazed out a white-curtained window at the orchard below. A number of Fourth Years were walking down the path, laughing.
“Want me to close the window?” Max asked.
“Nah,” he said. “Breeze feels nice.”
Max tapped his knee and watched his father’s mammoth torso expanding in slow, ponderous breaths. He turned away and studied the room’s woven mats of dried grasses and furniture of dark woods, wicker, and smooth green cushions. Max left his seat to explore the private bath of cool stone tile and silver faucets. Finally, his dad’s voice rumbled from the other room.
“What?” said Max, poking his head around the corner. Mr. McDaniels was now sitting up; the damp washcloth had fallen onto the floor.
“The museum,” he mumbled. “The Art Institute—on Mom’s birthday. You weren’t lying to me, were you?”
“No,” said Max, sitting on the bed next to his dad and retrieving the washcloth. “That’s the day this all started, I guess. That’s the day I found that room and saw it.”
“‘It’ what?”
“The tapestry. It was my vision—it let the people here know about me.”
“I had no idea,” croaked Mr. McDaniels, shaking his head and looking around the room. “No idea that anything like this existed, much less that my son was a part of it….”
There was a soft knock on the door, and Max went to open it.
Mum came hurtling through the door, holding a tray of toast and tea.
“I came as soon as they’d let me,” she panted. “Oh, you poor things! Let Mum take care of the nice, big man.”
Setting the tray on the bed, Mum tittered and danced an excited little jig at Mr. McDaniels, who stood speechless against the wall. Max quickly inserted himself between his father and the hag. Mum began petting Max’s hand and humming contentedly, but her crocodile eye remained fixed on Scott McDaniels.
“Mum,” said Max firmly, “I’d like you to meet my dad, Scott McDaniels.”
“Oh, how delightful!” exclaimed the hag, using the introduction as an excuse to try and tunnel past Max.