The Mostly True Story of Jack (21 page)

“Anders!” she yelled. “Jack! Get me out of here!”

“Y
OU KNOW
,” J
ACK WHISPERED TO
A
NDERS, “THIS IS THE
second time I’ve been arrested since I got here.”

“Shut up, kid,” the officer said. He, like his partner, held a lit cigarette in his mouth, which bobbed up and down when he talked. Jack wondered whether their ashes flicked into each other’s faces, and if they did, whether the officers minded it. The smoke curled around their heads and thickened the air.

“You got the Portsmouth?” Anders said in a voice so quiet it was barely more than a breath.

“What’s that, kid?” asked the officer in the passenger seat.

“Nothing, sir,” Anders said helpfully. “It’s just that your cigarettes are bothering my allergies.” He coughed a few times to prove his point.

“Right,” said the officer in the driver’s seat, taking another drag off the cigarette. “No more talking.”

The squad car serpentined through the town, doubling back and looping around blocks so often that Jack felt dizzy. The officer in the passenger’s seat kept talking on the radio, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with the two boys, but something with the radio wasn’t working right.

“Dispatch, this is car five-nine-oh. We—”

“It’s inappropriate to use the dispatch system for grocery lists,” said a woman’s terse voice on the radio. “You may discuss boxes of Cheerios after hours.”

“No, dispatch, we’ve picked up the boy—”

“We are not looking for a
toy
. We’re looking for a
boy
.”

“
No
, we’re informing you that we’ve apprehended—”

“I don’t care what you’ve pretended, Officer. This is no time to be playing games. We’ve got a manhunt going on, and all of our jobs are at stake.”

And so on.

The officers in the front seat swore and complained.

“You watch,” said the officer in the driver’s seat, “they’re just doing this so that we bring him into the
station
and
they
get the reward.”

“Typical,” said the other. “But we can play at that game. We’ll just wait until we get a location on old man Avery. We’ll deliver the kid to the Man himself.” They turned up the radio and listened closely, though it was difficult as the static became worse and worse with each passing second.

Anders and Jack exchanged glances.

“This is ridiculous,” the first officer said.

The second officer pointed to a squad car parked in front of a house. “Look. There’s Johnson and Clarke. We’ll talk to them.”

“But they’ll want a cut. I don’t want to divide it four ways.”

“Better four ways than nothing. And that’s what we’ll get if the jerks from the station get their hands on the kid. You think
they’ll
give us our due?”

He slid the squad car to a halt and the two officers got out.

Anders turned to Jack.

“The Portsmouth,” he hissed. “Do you have it?”

“
What?
” Jack asked.

“The stone. That Frankie gave you.”

“But how did you—”

Anders shook his head impatiently. “Never mind that part. Do you know how to use it?”

Jack pulled the stone out of his pocket. It vibrated and heated in his hand, and the blue veins stood bright and livid against the pearly surface. “No,” he said at last.
“It made, I don’t know, a window or something. Frankie did it so we could hear a meeting.” Though he knew the words were
true
, Jack was horrified at how unlikely they sounded. And how his voice sounded so very much like someone caught in a lie.

“It opens a door,” Anders said slowly. “Press it against a wall and tell it where you want to go, or what you want to see.”

Jack shook his head. “You do it.”

“I can’t,” Anders said. “Not here anyway. You’re going to have to pull me in after you. Frankie and I’ve tried it all over the place. Don’t tell Wendy.” Anders paled at the thought. “She doesn’t know. And she’d kill me if she did. Anyway, Frankie could only make it work when he was standing right on an eruption point. I could stand a little ways off, but not very far. I’m pretty sure
you
can use it anywhere.”

“What do you mean,
I can use it anywhere
? Why would
I
be different from
you
? And anyway, Frankie did it.
He
opened the window when we were outside Mr. Avery’s house.” Jack shuddered. The sound of Mr. Avery’s voice saying
out of the picture
still rang in his ears.

“Are you sure about that?”

And Jack thought for a moment. Frankie pressed Jack’s hand to the wall, but it was Jack, not Frankie, who held the stone, and it was Jack, not Frankie, who thought,
What’s going on in there that he wants me to see?
Had
Jack
made the Portsmouth work without realizing?

“But”—Jack’s mouth had gone quite dry—“why can’t you guys use it? Why me?”

Anders shook his head. “Oh, Jack,” he said softly. “Haven’t you guessed? Don’t you see that—oh! quick! They’re coming. Open a door, Jack.”

“But I don’t know how.”

Anders pressed Jack’s hand against the back of the seat. “You
do
know how, even if you don’t realize it. Tell it where you want to go.
Concentrate
.”

“Hey!” the taller officer shouted. “What are you two kids doing?
Hey! Knock that off!
”

“Now, Jack!”

Jack shook his head. There was no way.
I just want to see my mom
, he thought desperately.
I just want to be home.
He shut his eyes.

And a door appeared. It opened into the darkness. Jack and Anders tumbled inside.

I
T TOOK FOUR HOURS FOR THE POLICE TO ARRIVE
. I
N THE
meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher searched the entire house and the surrounding area while they waited for the police. At dawn, Mr. Schumacher went to the station, but only found a single harassed-looking dispatcher, who told him that the entire force was out on a manhunt and that he needed to sit tight until they could spare an officer to take down the report.

“Fill out the missing persons form and I’ll call it in,” she said kindly.

Mr. Schumacher sat holding the pen over the paper for a full ten minutes, trying desperately to remember Wendy’s name. Finally, when the name returned to him in a flash, he filled out the form as best he could (How tall was she again? How much did she weigh? Did he know those things before?) and left the station in tears, repeating her name again and again and again.

Wendy, Wendy, Wendy.
The entire family turned her name into a mantra.
Wendy, Wendy, Wendy.
Until at last the officers arrived.

Frankie couldn’t help himself. He had forgotten about his carefully planned sighs and dreamy smiles, he had forgotten to keep his face empty except for the scars. He sat at the table next to his mom and dad as two police officers wrote down notes regarding the disappearance of Wendy. It was a waste of time, Frankie knew, and he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Have you noticed any changes in her behavior patterns in recent days, Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher? Is it out of the question that she may have run away?”

“No,” Mrs. Schumacher said, balancing her forehead against the heel of one hand and closing her eyes tightly. She had her other arm looped around Frankie’s middle, as though he might suddenly launch upward and fly away. “Not at all. I mean, she got into a fight not too long ago with that Avery boy.”

“That’s nothing new,” grunted the other officer.

Frankie’s father pushed his chair away from the table
with a loud squeak that made everyone wince. “I can’t just sit here and wait. We’ve done this before.”

“Sit,” Mrs. Schumacher commanded, but he was already opening the drawer next to the refrigerator, rattling around the contents until he produced a set of keys.

“With any luck,” he said, grabbing his seed cap off the hook, “she’s wandering the streets looking for trouble.” Mrs. Schumacher slammed the palm of her hand on the kitchen table, making the dishes rattle, but he was already opening the door. “I’m gonna bank on luck.”

The officers didn’t get up. The first officer picked up his mug and brought it to his mouth. “It’s best to leave this to the professionals, Jed. You’ll only muck things up.”

“Seems to me, you told me that once before,” Mr. Schumacher said with a hollow laugh.

Frankie looked directly at his father, something that he rarely did. His father had very large brown eyes that were often darkened with exhaustion or regret or even sorrow. Very slowly, Jed Schumacher adjusted the back of the seed cap and fitted it over his balding head. His eyes were on the knot of scars.

“Franklin James,” he said, “you coming?”

“He most certainly is not,” Mrs. Schumacher said, but Frankie was already on his feet and walking quickly to the door. His father shrugged.

“I’ll feel better not to have him out of my sight. Call the Jorgensons and the Rustads and—and—who else?
Jan Hoveland. Tell them I’ll pick them up and we’ll go looking. And tell Clive Fitzpatrick too. I tried their phone already, so you’ll have to go over there. He’s a weird old coot, but he found Frankie, and I never forgot it.”

“Frankie.
Franklin James
. You turn yourself right around, young man,” Frankie heard his mother say, but his father closed the door behind them, and she didn’t open it again.

At the second stop sign, Frankie saw Lancelot. He was perched at the top of the sign showing the intersection between Elm Street and Johnson Avenue. He was staring down the edge of his hooked nose like a hawk. Frankie waved at the bird, which waved back with both wings.

The bird, Frankie knew, was telling him something.
Here. Now. Come.
Frankie nodded.

And before his father could stop him, Frankie opened the door and sprinted through the yards, heading indirectly for Henderson’s Gully. He could hear his father honking the horn, wrenching the door open, then closed, and swearing behind him. His father would attempt to chase him, but he would never catch up. Frankie may have been silent and hurt, but he was
fast
. He pounded across the yards, cutting a path that a truck couldn’t follow, until the sounds of his father’s shouting receded and he could only hear his own breath and the rustle and beat of Lancelot’s wings. The bird, he knew, wouldn’t leave him, and that was a comfort.

The scars on his face burned. She was angry. Frankie knew it in his bones.

Angry was good, he thought. Angry meant that they still had a little time and that all was not—not yet anyway—lost.

Frankie turned at the end of Elm Street and slid into the curtain of green that fringed the edge of the forest. The trees pressed close to one another, but Frankie didn’t slow down. He knew the gap between each tree, each bush, each fallen snag. He knew the hidden paths, invisible to the eye but not the body. He scrambled and ran. All he could hear was the pounding of his feet, his rasping breath, and the constant drum of his heartbeat, reminding him that he was alive.

Even now.

Even
still
.

There was a door somewhere in that thicket of trees and vines and muck at the bottom of the gully. But where it was and how to open it, that was another matter indeed.

J
ACK AND
A
NDERS WERE IN DARKNESS, TOTAL AND ABSOLUTE
. They gripped each other’s hands for dear life, the Portsmouth pressed firmly between their palms.

“You know,” Jack began, but his voice sounded dreamy and far away, and he had forgotten what he was about to say.

It smelled like flowers. No, it smelled like baking bread. Jack had a sudden memory of a small boy lying on a bed made from petals and feathers, and wondered whether it was a painting he had once seen, and why the
image seemed so real to him, and why it made him suddenly want to cry.

“Jack,” a voice whispered. “Ja-ack.”

“Mom?” Jack asked. “Is that you?” But of course it wasn’t his mother. Jack’s mother had a clear, sharp voice. But this voice was neither sharp nor clear. It was soft, velvety, and dark.

“Anders, did you hear that?” But Anders was silent. If it wasn’t for the sensation of Anders’s hand holding on to Jack’s own, he would have believed himself to be alone.

“Jack, I’ve missed you,” the dark voice said.

“Where are you?”

“Open the door.”

“What door? I can’t see anything.”

“Open the door, honey.”

Without warning, Jack felt his body slam against something hard and rough. He felt around for a handle.

“Anders! Help me!”

Anders moved nearer and helped to push.

“It’s not supposed to be stuck like this,” Anders said.

“What
is
it supposed to be like?” Jack huffed. The door gave its first creak. “Why is this so difficult?”

“Piecing together what’s been broken is always difficult,” the dark voice said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” wheezed Jack.

“What
what’s
supposed to mean?” Anders asked.

“Just open the door, darling,” the dark voice said.

Fumbling in the dark, Jack ran his hands along the bumpy wood.

“I’m trying to. Ouch!” A splinter lodged itself deep into his index finger. Finally his hands found a deep groove and a metal latch. He lifted the latch with a slow creak, and felt the door jerk out of his hand, as though blown by a strong wind. Jack and Anders found themselves tumbling though space, through time, through door after door, until landing with a thud on a narrow strip of rug in a hallway crammed with paintings and bookcases. Clive and Mabel’s house. They lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Are we dead?” Jack asked, unable to move.

“I don’t think so,” Anders said. “Dead people don’t care if someone’s sitting on their knees. Could you please move, by the way?”