The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(44)

Before they left, I explained to them that it wasn’t about us, it was about the greater good. I told them that the Dacturons could rise out of nowhere to destroy us all on Earth if we didn’t act quickly.

I showed them an old picture I had hidden in my closet under a floorboard. It was a picture of Jason, and Travis was in it.

I wanted to be sure that they would be able to identify Travis.

He was still stalking me.

I believed he was there that night. I could not see him as I looked out my brightly lit room with my friends, but I felt him looking in on me from the darkness.

“My amulet glowed in order to confirm that something—or someone—was out there. I could feel hatred glaring in on me. It is almost like a sixth sense, which tempted me to turn and look about frantically. I need a break. Oh yeah.”

Now is the time. Just do it.

I lay down this tablet and kneel, placing my hands on the floor, which disgustingly is caked with thick dust that still causes me breathing difficulties.

I am on to something, and I wish to do a few solid push-ups to disguise my maneuver. My weak shoulders and twig-like wrists tremble from the weight they bear.

Building muscle isn’t my goal, so I slow my repetitions. I search for that interesting thing, as I push my body away from the dirty floor.

I look around frantically, losing hope. My mind has been playing tricks on me lately. I glumly conclude one thing: if I die now, I have nothing to show for it. I would die a failure; just a young man in a cell.


Wait! I see something. What is it? A disk lies upon my cell’s floor—about an inch in diameter. The guards are watching me though, and I act as unnoticeable as I can—slyly clutching the disc, and slowly moseying over to my mats. Feeling apprehensive over getting caught, I lie down.

What is this thing? I pretend to rub my eyes, but I conceal the disk in the palm of my hand, and take a couple of quick glances at it as I mime my fatigue. It is dull silver, and has a circular grid of tiny microscopic holes over the top surface.

Before I insert it discreetly into my pocket, a slight sound escapes from it and barely reaches my ears. Excited, but careful not to show my panic, I pretend to scratch my scalp behind my right ear. In doing so, I hold the wafer-thin disk about one inch from my ear. The sound has faded out.

I think I know what it is, and I think I know who left it. That shapely nurse. With a smooth move, I drop it off in my shirt pocket, as I mime stroking my shoulder.

Exhilarated, I inhale the musty old air deeply, take a sip of stale water, and turn the tablet on.

I see my reflection among the oily smears of my tablet’s screen: a shadowy depression under each cheekbone, and eyes sunk in deep, highlighting my cheekbones. My hair is straw-like and matted.

Looking up at the turret, I see it is bathed in green floodlights. The floodlights switch from blue to green each evening. Between changes, there is a burst of red, signaling the transition. In the beginning, I used to count how many incidences of red illuminations I had seen, so I could count my number of days in captivity. However, I had long ago stopped counting.

I do know I am nineteen. I am far too young to perform the despairing, excruciating dalliance with the ultimate Prince of Darkness—Death. Shuddering at yet again peering into the bottom of the abyss, I lift the tablet again, and I begin:

“Two weeks went by. My new friends and I used the time to build our relationships. We skated, played games, and learned about each other. To describe us, I would say we were inseparable. We felt we had bonded for life.”

We tried to bring-in a couple of people on our recruitment list, yet they gleefully shot down their chances with unintended bravado. We shook our heads. For example, we stood with mouths agape as we stood in a 7-Eleven and watched a promising candidate surreptitiously stuff a candy bar right into his pocket, without paying. There went that prospect.

We were heading toward panic mode—we had seven days left. It was Sunday again, and it was colder than usual. We were down to the last two people on our list, and probably the most unlikely to join, Mariah Espinosa and Liam McCaffrey. Mariah was the girl I long had a long-time crush on. Liam was the guy on the farm whose mother we had already suspected of a possible act of “hanky panky.”

It was a brisk evening as Lincoln and I hitched a ride with my grandpa, who had kindly agreed to drop us off at the Woodland Fun Haven Center, which was a cool arcade, with the latest in interactive video games, laser tag, mini bowling alley, and make-your-own soft ice cream dispensing machines. I had the window down in the car, because my grandpa was puffing away on a cigarette. The wind whipped my face, but it was better than burning my lungs with second-hand smoke.

Our next target was Mariah. One of our sources told us the day before that she might be at Fun Haven, because her girlfriend was having a birthday party there. That was where we would try to recruit her.

Once again, we didn’t have a plan. We had faith in all of our allies, with the Dietons on my side.

As I sat in the back seat, I was daydreaming about Mariah. I flashed back to the conversation I had at home with grandpa this morning. I had found him reading the sports section, as usual, on his favorite armchair, which had garish-looking duct tape splayed across the upper part. My adrenalin raced, but I instinctively knew I could trust him. Standing behind him stupidly, I hesitated to speak out. He did not know I was right behind him.

A minute passed. I cleared my throat, but he did not hear me. I urged myself to take the bull by the horns; I could hear my grandma’s shower still running.