Текст книги "Gideon’s Sword"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

45

Gideon Crew stepped out of the car and looked up at the admissions building of Throckmorton Academy. It loomed before them, a nineteenth-century Romanesque Revival structure of gray granite, rising from perfectly tended shrubbery, flower beds, and clipped lawns. A brass plaque screwed into the wall told them the structure was known as the SWITHIN COTTAGE, following the WASPish self-deprecating habit of calling gigantic and expensive houses “cottages.” It fairly exuded money, privilege, and smug superiority.

“This is really stupid,” said Orchid, standing in the parking lot, tugging down the jacket of her tacky orange pantsuit. “I don’t get it. We look like idiots. They’re going to toss us out on our asses.”

“Perhaps,” said Gideon, clutching a thick folder of papers that had taken him hours of sustained and careful labor to prepare. He smoothed down his checked pants and jacket, adjusted his polyester tie, and headed toward the front door.

“I don’t know why you dressed us like this,” Orchid whispered furiously. “We don’t fit in at allhere.”

He took her arm reassuringly. “Just follow my lead. All will become clear, I promise.”

They entered a well-appointed waiting room, and the receptionist looked at them. “May I help you?” The tone was studiously neutral.

“Hello,” said Gideon heartily, approaching and shaking her surprised hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Crew. We’re here to enroll our son Tyler in the school.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

Gideon liked that whom. Here was someone punctilious with her grammar. He shuffled through his papers. “Mr. Van Rensselaer.” It was one of those old New York names and he mispronounced it badly.

She rose and disappeared into an inner sanctum. A moment later she emerged again. “Mr. Van Rensselaerwill see you now,” she said, emphasizing the correct pronunciation.

The admissions officer was exactly as Gideon had hoped: tall, relaxed, friendly, dressed understatedly. The slightly longish hair and modish glasses indicated a man who, if not exactly open-minded, thought of himself as tolerant and moderate.

Perfect.

Van Rensselaer greeted them warmly, his eyes betraying only momentary alarm as he professionally covered up his reaction to their dress and manner.

“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” said Gideon, after the introductions. “We’d like to enroll our son, Tyler, in the second grade. He’s a very special boy.”

“Of course. Naturally, we have a fairly comprehensive process here at Throckmorton Academy, involving interviews with the parents and child, teacher references, and a battery of age-appropriate testing. We have many more applicants than we can accept, unfortunately. And I am afraid to say, as I believe I explained on the telephone, there are currently no openings in the second grade.”

“But Tyler is special.”

Van Rensselaer had not seated himself. “So as I mentioned, while we’re glad to give you a quick tour of the campus, it would be unfair to take up more of your valuable time without any hope of admission for your son. If something opens up, of course, we’ll be in touch. Now, we’d be glad to arrange that tour.”

“Thank you. But I just thought I would leave this folder of Tyler’s work—” Gideon brandished the folder of papers toward Van Rensselaer, who eyed it with the faintest whiff of distaste.

“That won’t be necessary at this time.”

“At least let me leave you the symphony.”

“The…excuse me?”

“The symphony. Tyler composed a symphony.”

A long silence. “How old did you say Tyler was?”

“Seven.”

“And he had help composing this…symphony?”

“Oh heavens, no!” said Orchid, suddenly, her raspy cigarette-cured voice echoing in the hushed confines of the office. “What do we know about classical music!” A laugh followed.

Suppressing a smile, Gideon slid out the sheet music. After a moment, Van Rensselaer took it.

“He used GarageBand,” said Gideon. “It sounds great, lots of trumpets. The CD is taped there, too. You should listen to it.”

Van Rensselaer began flipping through the printed-out symphony. “Surely someone helped him do this.”

“No one. Really. We didn’t even know he was doing it.”

“Um, neither of you is musical?”

“I like Lady Gaga,” said Orchid, with a nervous laugh.

“Where does…Tyler get his musical interest?”

“No idea. He was adopted, you know, from Korea.”

“Korea,” Van Rensselaer repeated.

“Sure. Some of our friends were adopting kids from Asia and so we thought it would be cool, since, well—​we can’t have children. And it was something we could have in common with them, you know, talk about. But the symphony isn’t the only thing. Here are some of his drawings. You can keep them—​they’re copies.”

He slid out the drawings. It was amazing what you could find on the web. He’d added a little signature to the bottom of each one, TYLER CREW, before copying them.

Van Rensselaer took the drawings and looked at them.

“That’s our dog. Tyler loves the dog. And that’s some old church he found in a book.”

“Chartres,” murmured Van Rensselaer.

“What?” It had been devilishly difficult finding the right drawings from the vast selection available online; they had to combine childishness with artistic genius in just the right way.

“These are amazing,” said Van Rensselaer softly, paging through them.

“Tyler is special,” repeated Orchid. “He’s already smarter than I am.” She put a Chiclet in her mouth and began to chew. “Gum?”

Van Rensselaer didn’t answer. He was absorbed in the drawings.

“I gotta tell you,” said Gideon, “Tyler’s also just an ordinary kid. He’s not one of those stuck-up types. He loves to watch Family Guywith us, he laughs so hard. He especially liked the episode where Peter gets drunk and drops trou in the front yard, just as the cops are driving by.”

Orchid burst into a peal of laughter. “That one was the best.”

“ Family Guy?” A look of horror bloomed on Van Rensselaer’s face.

“Anyway, in this folder are a bunch of Tyler’s sonnets, more drawings, and a bunch more musical compositions.”

“All done by himself?”

“I helped him with the cartoons,” said Gideon proudly. “But, well, we don’t know much about music, literature, or drawing. I own a sports bar, see. In Yonkers.”

Van Rensselaer looked from him to Orchid.

“He’s also good at mathematics, I don’t know how the heck he learned the stuff. Just like when he taught himself to read when he was two and a half. Also, I’ve got some letters from his teachers in there.” He pawed through the folder and extracted a couple of letters he had carefully composed and printed on faked school letterhead. “There’s one from his math tutor – he’s way ahead of his grade – and another from the principal.” The letters waxed eloquent about Tyler’s transcendental genius and some made carefully veiled allusions to his home environment.

“Oh, and here are his test results. Somebody gave him an IQ test.”

Van Rensselaer examined the results. His face became very still, almost blank, and the paper shook slightly. “I think…” he began slowly. “Under the circumstances…we may be able to find a place for Tyler here at Throckmorton. Of course, we’d still have to meet him and go through the application process.”

“Wonderful!” cried Orchid, clapping her hands. She was really getting into it.

“Please,” Van Rensselaer said, “have a seat.”

“Just a minute,” said Gideon as he sat down. “There are a few things I want to make sure of. First of all, will there be other Asian students in his class? I don’t want him to feel left out.”

“Absolutely,” said Van Rensselaer briskly, switching into full salesmanship mode.

“Like, how many? Not just in the second grade, but in the elementary school. I want to know numbers.”

“Let me get the class lists.” Van Rensselaer called in the receptionist, issued the request. She returned a moment later with a piece of paper. The admissions officer glanced through it, slid it across his desk. “She’s checked the ones of Asian descent.”

Gideon took the paper.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you keep that. We are naturally very protective of our families’ privacy.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” He examined it. Fifteen students. That was his universe. He committed the names to memory.

“I also heard,” he said sternly, laying down the paper, “that there was a serious outbreak of flu on campus.”

“Flu? I don’t think so.”

“That’s what I heard. In fact, I heard that on June seventh, just before graduation, more than three-quarters of the elementary school was out sick.”

“I hardly think that’s possible.” Van Rensselaer called the receptionist back in. “Get me the attendance records for the lower school on June seventh.”

“Very well.”

“How about some coffee?” asked Gideon, eyeing a pot in the corner.

“What? Oh, please excuse me! I should have offered it to you earlier. How negligent.”

“No problem, I’ll take it with extra cream and three sugars.”

“Extra cream and four sugars for me,” said Orchid.

Van Rensselaer rose and fumbled with the coffee himself. As he did so, the receptionist came back. She laid the document on the desk just as Van Rensselaer returned with the coffee. Gideon reached for it as he rose from his chair, and the combined movement somehow caused him to knock the cups and spill coffee all over Van Rensselaer’s desk.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he cried. “What a klutz I am!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he began mopping up the liquid, wiping the papers, fussing about, shoving everything this way and that.

They all joined in cleaning up the mess, the receptionist returning with paper towels.

“So sorry,” repeated Gideon. “So sorry.”

“No problem,” said Van Rensselaer, his voice tight, surveying the mess of damp, stained papers. “It could happen to anyone.” He brightened up again immediately. “We’d love to see Tyler as soon as possible. Shall we schedule the interview now?”

“I’ll call you,” said Gideon. “Keep the file. We gotta run.”

A few minutes later they were out in the car, driving through the wrought-iron gates. Orchid was almost helpless with laughter. “Jeez, you’re funny, you know that? I couldn’t believe the look on that guy’s face. He thought we were just awful people. Awful.I know all about guys like that – they always want blow jobs, ’cause their wives don’t like to get a—”

“Right, right,” said Gideon, hoping to head the conversation in another direction. “He wanted to save poor Tyler from us, that much was obvious.”

“So what’s the point? Why the charade? And don’t give me any more shit about Method acting.”

The class lists and June 7 attendance records were now safely in Gideon’s jacket pocket, and they would show exactly which Asian child was absent on the day after Wu’s plane landed at JFK. Because, Gideon expected, a child in the international terminal waiting area at JFK after midnight would not likely be attending school the next day.

“Method acting,” said Gideon Crew. “On my word of honor, it’s all about Method acting. And you’re a star.”

46

I just wish you’d tell me what the hell’s reallygoing on!” Orchid said as they rounded the corner of 51st and Park. Gideon walked fast. He’d been avoiding her questions all the way back, trying to focus on his next move. And she was getting increasingly pissed at his evasions.

She struggled to keep up. “Damn it, why won’t you talk to me?”

Gideon sighed. “Because I’m tired of lying to people. Especially you.”

“So tell me the truth, then!”

“It isn’t safe.” They walked past the iron gates of Saint Bart’s park and Gideon heard a brief strain of old Blues music from a street musician. He suddenly halted and listened. The faint strains of the guitar floated to him over the sounds of midday traffic.

He placed a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

“You can’t keep me in the dark—”

He gave her arm a light warning squeeze and she stopped talking. “Just be cool,” he murmured. “Don’t react.”

He listened to the faint music, the raspy singing.

In my time of dyin’

Don’t want nobody to mourn

“What is it?” Orchid whispered.

Gideon answered with more gentle pressure. He turned and pretended to answer his cell phone, giving them an excuse to be standing there, listening.

All I want for you to do

Is to take my body home.

Gideon recognized it as a Blind Willie tune, “In My Time of Dyin’.” It aroused in him a faint sensation of déjà vu, and he searched his mind for where he had recently heard that same bottleneck guitar.

Bottleneck guitar.

It was on Avenue C. It wasn’t a guitar, but a bum humming that same old Blues tune. When he was leaving the diner. He pictured the dark street and he remembered a bum sitting on a stoop, humming – just humming.

Well, well, well so I can die easy

Well, Well, Well

Well, Well, Well so I can die easy

Now he listened with care. The guy was good. More than good. Not flashy, not technical, but playing easy and slow, as a real Delta Blues tune should be played. But as Gideon listened, he realized that some of the lyrics were different from the version he knew best; this was another version, one he wasn’t as familiar with.

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up my dyin’ bed.

The revelation struck him hard. Disguising his surprise, he shut his phone as if the call were over and urged Orchid forward by the arm, toward the awning of the Waldorf. As soon as they were inside he quickened his pace, propelling her through the lobby, past the giant urn of flowers, toward Peacock Alley.

“Hey! What the hell?”

They swept past the maître d’, brushing aside his proffered menus, walked through the restaurant to the back, and pushed through the double doors into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” The voice of the maître d’ was drowned out by the clatter of pots and shouts. “Sir, you can’t—”

But Gideon was already moving fast toward the rear of the kitchen. He pushed through another set of double doors into a long hallway lined with giant walk-in refrigerators.

“Come back here!” came the maître d’s distant voice. “Someone call security!”

Gideon took a sharp turn, blew through a third set of doors, and ended up in an inner receiving bay. Continuing on, a protesting Orchid following in his wake, he trotted through the bay and onto the outside receiving dock, clambered down the steps, and ran down a short alley to 50th Street, still hustling Orchid along. He swiftly crossed the street through blaring traffic, trotted two blocks uptown, entered the Four Seasons Restaurant, ran up the stairs to the upper level of the Pool Room, and entered the kitchen.

“Again?”

Racing through the kitchen to more protests and shouts, they emerged onto Lexington Avenue opposite the 51st Street subway entrance. At Gideon’s urging, they ran across the street and jogged down the stairs. He swiped his card through the turnstile twice, and they emerged onto the platform just as an uptown train was pulling in. Orchid in tow, Gideon boarded the train. The doors closed.

“What the hell?” Orchid said, gasping for breath.

Gideon sank back into a seat, thinking fast. He’d heard the same voice humming and singing on Avenue C. And today, the man had been playing a very rare version of a Blind Willie tune – a version that had only been released on vinyl in Europe and the Far East.

If we can find you,Garza had said, so can Nodding Crane.And now it seemed he had.

Gideon exhaled slowly, looked carefully around the car. Surely it was impossible that Nodding Crane had followed them onto the uptown train.

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand, still recovering his breath.

“I’ve just about had it with your shenanigans,” said Orchid, yelling.

“I know. I know.” He patted her hand. “I’ve been really unfair to you. Look, Orchid: I’ve dragged you into something that’s a lot more dangerous than I realized. I’ve been a real idiot. I need you to go back to your apartment and lie low – I’ll contact you later when all this blows over.”

“No way! You’re not gonna leave me again!”

Now she was really shouting, turning heads all the way down the car.

“I promise I’ll call you. I promise.”

“I won’t be treated like shit!”

“Please, Orchid. I really like you, I really do. That’s why I can’t drag you into this trouble.” He looked at her carefully. “I willcall you.”

“Why don’t you just say it?” she cried, the tears suddenly springing into her eyes and rolling down her face. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? You think I can’t see that? Why don’t you let me help you? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

He didn’t have the heart to deny it. “Yes, I’m in trouble, but you can’t help. Just go back to your place. I’ll come back for you, I promise. It’ll be over soon, one way or another. Look – I’ve got to go.”

“ No!” She clutched at him like a drowning woman.

This was futile. He needed to get away from her – for her own safety. The subway rolled into 59th Street, halted with a groan, and the doors slid open. At the last moment, making a sudden decision, Gideon twisted free and ran out. He stopped and turned to apologize again, but the doors slammed shut, and he had a glimpse of her devastated face through the window as the train pulled out of the station.

“I promise I’ll call you!” he cried, but it was too late and the train was gone.

47

Gideon drove moodily through the midafternoon Jersey traffic. He’d crossed over through the Holland Tunnel, then pointed the rented Chevy northward through the old, tired urban tangle, one town blending seamlessly with another: Kearny, North Arlington, Rutherford, Lodi. The streets all looked the same—​narrow, busy, dense with three– and four-story brick buildings, their shopfronts dingy, heavy clusters of telephone wires hanging claustrophobically overhead. Now and then, through the urban accretion, he could catch glimpses of what had once been a downtown: the marquee of a movie theater, now disused; the plate-glass window of an erstwhile soda joint. Fifty or sixty years ago, these places had been separate little towns, bright and sparkling, full of bobby soxers and guys with derbies and ducktails. Now they were just ghostly pentimentos beneath an endless procession of salumerias, mercados, discount stores, and cell phone shops.

He crossed into Bergen County, passing through another half a dozen sad-looking towns. There were much faster ways to reach his destination, of course, but Gideon wanted to lose himself for a while in a mindless act such as driving. He was full of uncomfortable and unwelcome emotions: agitation at discovering Nodding Crane, shame and embarrassment at his treatment of Orchid. He told himself it was for her own good, for her protection; that she was better off not getting involved with a man who had a year to live. It didn’t make him feel any better. He had used her, used her cynically.

As he drove farther north, toward the New York State line, the cramped streets grew broader and leafier, and the traffic eased. Residences became grander and farther apart. He glanced down at the sheet of paper he’d placed on the passenger seat. Biyu Liang, Bergen Dafa Center, Old Tappan,he’d scrawled on it. With the attendance records unwittingly supplied by Van Rensselaer, it had been a trivial undertaking to single out the Asian boy who’d been at JFK – Jie Liang – and from there to learn the identity of his mother. He didn’t know what a Dafa Center was, but that was the woman’s place of employment – and his destination.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into what to his surprise appeared to be an old estate: not huge, but well manicured, a large puddingstone mansion, a separate garage, and an adjoining gatehouse, the whole now converted into a small campus of sorts. A sign set back from the road read BERGEN DAFA CENTER.

Gideon parked his car in the lot beside the main building and trotted up the steps to the twin doors, decorated with wrought-iron filigree. He stepped through into an ornate front hall that had been converted into a reception area. A tasteful sign on one wall read: FALUN GONG EXERCISES 3–5 WEEKDAYS, TEACHINGS WEEKNIGHTS 7–10. It was flanked by other signs covered with symbols and Chinese ideographs.

A young Asian woman was seated behind a desk. She smiled as he approached.

“May I help you?” she asked in unaccented English.

Gideon smiled back. “I’d like to speak with Biyu Liang, please.”

“She’s conducting a session at the moment,” the woman said, extending her hand toward an open door through which Gideon could hear a mixture of music and speech.

“Thank you, I’ll wait for her to finish.”

“Feel free to observe.”

Gideon stepped past her and into a spacious room of Zen-like simplicity. A woman was leading a group of people in a series of slow exercises, all of them moving gently in unison to the hypnotic sound of five-tone music, tinkling bells, and percussion. The woman was apparently giving instructions in melodious Mandarin. He looked at her carefully. She was younger than the woman in the airport had been, but resembled her enough that he concluded the woman in the video had probably been the child’s grandmother.

Gideon waited for the session to end. As he did so, he was increasingly struck by what he was seeing; there was something ineffable in the movements, something beautiful, almost universal. Falun Gong,he mused. He had heard of it, vaguely, and recalled it was some form of Buddhist practice from China. Clearly, he needed to learn more.

The session continued for another ten minutes. As the group dispersed, chatting quietly, Gideon remained standing at the entrance, waiting. The woman who had been leading the session noticed him and came over. She was small with what could only be described as a round, shining face.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes.” Gideon gave her a big smile. “My name’s Gideon Crew, and my son, Tyler, is entering Throckmorton Academy in the fall – we’ve just moved here from New Mexico. He’s going to be in your son Jie’s class.”

“How nice,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.” They shook hands and she introduced herself.

“He’s adopted,” Gideon continued, “from Korea. We just wanted to make sure he’d feel at home – he’s still having some difficulty with English – which is why my wife and I were pleased to learn there would be other Asian children in the class. It’s hard to come into a new school in a new place. That’s why I was hoping to meet you and a few of the other parents.”

“I’ll talk to Jie about your boy. Jie’s very kind and I know he’ll make a special effort to be friends with your son right away.”

Gideon felt embarrassed. “Thank you, I know that will make a real difference.” He moved to leave but then, as if on impulse, he turned back. “I’m sorry if this is a bother. I couldn’t help but watch what was going on here while I was waiting to speak with you. I was struck by it, the music, the movements. What is it, exactly?”

Her face lit up. “We are practitioners of Falun Gong – or, more properly, Falun Dafa.”

“I’m very curious, and…well, I thought it was quite beautiful. What’s it for? Physical conditioning?”

“That’s only a small part. It’s a total system of mind and body cultivation, a way to recapture your original, true self.”

“Is it a religion?”

“Oh no. It’s a new form of science. Although it does involve Buddhist and Taoist principles. You might call it a spiritual and mental path, as opposed to a religion.”

“I’d like to learn more.”

She responded warmly, with a well-rehearsed description. “Dafa practitioners are guided by universal principles: truthfulness, compassion, and restraint. We strive continuously to harmonize ourselves with these, through a series of five simple exercises and meditation. Over time, the exercises will transform your body and mind and connect you to the deepest and most profound truths of the universe – and in this way you eventually find the path of return to your true self.”

This was clearly a topic dear to her heart. But in an odd way, Gideon found himself genuinely impressed. There might actually be something to this; he had felt it just listening and watching the movements. “Is it open to anyone?”

“Of course. We welcome everyone. As you saw, we have all kinds of practitioners, from every walk of life and background – in fact, here most of our practitioners are Westerners. Would you like to join a session?”

“I would. Is it expensive?”

She laughed. “You can come, listen, do the exercises as long as you like. Most of our English-language sessions are in the evenings. If in the future you feel it is helping you, then of course we would welcome support for the center. But there are no fees.”

“Does it originate in China?”

At this, the woman hesitated “It’s connected to ancient Chinese traditions and beliefs. But it’s been suppressed in China.”

This would be an extremely interesting thread to follow up on. But right now he had to find the older woman—​the grandmother. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he said. “I’ll certainly join a session. Now, getting back to the school: they mentioned Jie had a grandmother he’s very close to.”

“That might be my mother. She’s the founder of the Bergen Dafa Center.”

“Ah. May I meet her?”

Even as he asked it, he realized he had pushed a little too far. Her face lost a bit of its openness. “I’m sorry, she’s working on other Dafa business and is no longer involved on a daily basis with the center.” She paused. “If I may ask, why would you want to meet her?”

Gideon smiled. “Since they’re so close…and she takes him to school…well, I just thought it would be good to meet. But of course it’s not at all necessary…”

Now he realized he had made another mistake. The woman’s expression grew a little chilly. “She never takes him to Throckmorton. I’m surprised the school even knows of her.” A pause. “I wonder how youknow of her?”

Sink me,Gideon thought ruefully. He should have shut up while he was ahead. “They mentioned her at the school…Perhaps Jie’s talked about her?”

Her face softened just a bit. “Yes. I imagine he would.”

“I don’t want to take up your time any longer,” said Gideon, backing off and giving her an innocent smile. “You’ve been most kind.”

Mollified, she fetched him a brochure. “Here’s the schedule of introductory sessions. I hope to see you soon. And I’ll tell Jie about your son Tyler. Maybe we can have him over for a playdate before school begins in the fall.”

“That would be most kind,” said Gideon, with a final farewell smile.