Agents of the Glass, page 23
“Okay, so I get it so far. That explains the difference between them and us, but how are you turning the Andys of the world into, you know, people like me?”
“It’s a two-step process. In order for it to work, the part of their brain that feels compassion has to be working at maximum capacity. We do that with pictures of suffering people, especially children and animals—whatever we can throw at them. Mixed in with those are thousands of bright flashing colors that help to trigger even more brain activity, which is key for reasons we don’t entirely understand. Then we hit them with Compass Ion gas—get it? Compass Ion, compassion. Basically, it’s a synthetic version of the gas their body produces, but it’s a negative ion. The molecules seek out the positive ions, neutralizing them, and then…well, that’s it. When they snap out of the trance they’re in, they feel exactly like they did before.”
“And that’s it—they’re changed forever?”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on everyone who has been through the process, and so far the failure rate is only about one percent, which may simply be a matter of upping the dosage of the gas the next time. As I said, we’re constantly tinkering.”
St. John de Spere set his glass on the table and stood up to leave. “Thank you again for hosting tonight, Fontaine. And for the lovely champagne. A perfect night.”
Winter said her good nights and went to her room as Fontaine walked with de Spere to the door. “Do I have your word that she’s in no danger? I may not be in the running for mother of the year, but she is my daughter. I would be…unhappy if anything were to happen to her. Is…he still snooping around?”
St. John nodded, and a section of his long silver hair fell across his left eye. “After tomorrow, your brother will no longer be a problem.”
Friday. Officially, Karina Jellyby Day at Wellbourne Academy. From seven-thirty to two-thirty, it was a regular school day, but by two-forty-five, serious preparations were under way and Silas was already inside. His visitor’s badge identified him as a member of the band’s road crew, responsible for setting up the sound and light systems—not that he knew the first thing about either one. With the brim of a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, a fake beard, and thick-framed glasses, even Andy didn’t recognize him at first.
One of the side effects of NTRP’s broadcast of Winter’s interview with Karina was that Ms. Albemarle assigned the same team of students to create a behind-the-scenes video of the concert, including all the before-and-after work by the crew. This gave Andy complete, unquestioned access to the auditorium and allowed him to keep a close eye on Winter. Luke Toller, the freshman with the crush on Winter, had volunteered to be her camera operator, but Ms. Albemarle came to Andy’s rescue, giving him the job and assigning Luke to another reporter.
“Looks like it’s you and me again, Andy,” said Winter, so close to him that he smelled her minty-fresh breath as he stared up into her peculiar pale eyes.
It took everything he had, but he finally willed himself to look away, remembering Mrs. Cardigan’s advice: It’s all in the eyes.
“Uh, yeah…Are you ready? Where do you want to start?”
Winter checked her watch. “Let’s head down to the service entrance off the alley. We need to hurry.”
“Why? What’s there?”
“That’s where they’re bringing in all the equipment. We can get some shots of that, and maybe talk to one of the roadies. They look…interesting. They have lots of tattoos.”
She wasn’t kidding about the tattoos, but her actual motive for hanging out near the service entrance was to be there when the CO2 arrived. A young man in coveralls wheeled in a hand truck with two large tanks of compressed gas strapped to it. Andy examined them from across the room. He had seen tanks used to make soda, and these looked like the real thing to him. They were plain metal tanks, five feet tall and ten inches in diameter. Both had labels identifying them as carbon dioxide, with the usual warnings about the contents being under pressure and to avoid breathing the gas and so on. Except for a single stripe painted around the top of each tank—one in green, one in blue—the two tanks were identical.
The delivery guy looked around, then pulled a slip of yellow paper from his front pocket. “Hi. I’ve got the gas for the soda machine. I’m supposed to talk to…Winter Neale.”
“That’s me,” said Winter. “You can just follow me to the concession stand.”
“Why is he asking for you?” Andy asked, trailing a few feet behind her.
“Dr. Everly asked me to take care of it,” Winter lied. “She knew I’d be here, and I was on the refreshments committee last year for the spring concert, so I know where stuff like that goes.” She stopped at the concession stand door and turned to him, her head tilted in a way that reminded Andy of Penny. “Why do you ask?”
Andy shrugged. “It just seems weird, that’s all.”
“Just being helpful.” She pulled the door open and held it for the guy to wheel the hand truck through. “The machine’s over there.”
He went right to work, disconnecting the old tanks and wrestling the new ones into place. After removing the plastic cap that protected the threads, he connected the gas line to the top of the tank with the blue stripe and tightened it with a crescent wrench. “You’re all set. Just sign here.”
“Andy, can you take care of that?” Winter said as she pretended to be reading an important message on her phone.
Andy was not thrilled with the idea of having his name connected to whatever was in those tanks. He glanced from her to the delivery guy and asked, “Is this okay? I mean, since her name was on the order?”
“It don’t matter,” the guy said as he strapped the two empty tanks to the dolly.
Andy scribbled something that didn’t resemble his signature at all and handed the paper back.
“Thanks,” said Winter, holding the door for the guy and pointing the way out. She turned to Andy, smiling mischievously. “Come on. Let’s make sure it’s working.”
“Make sure what is working?”
“The soda machine, of course.” Winter slipped behind the concession counter and filled two cups with ice. She pointed the soda gun at Andy. “What can I get you, sir? Your usual—a root beer, with extra ice?”
He looked around nervously. “Uh, are you sure it’s okay?”
Winter waved off his concern. “It’s just soda, Andy. And we’re not stealing. When you put on a new tank, you have to run it for a few seconds to clear the lines. Everyone knows that. Besides, one of the sponsors is paying for all the food and soda. All the kids at the concert get to eat and drink all they want for free.” She handed him the cup, overflowing with foamy GoodTimes root beer. Then she filled her own cup with cola and raised it to him in a toast. “What should we drink to? To the future. I think today is going to be a very special day.”
Their next stop was backstage, where a heavy black tarp with the NTRP logo covered an object nearly as tall as Winter. A thick steel cable running all the way from the middle of the auditorium’s ceiling disappeared under the tarp, which carried this warning: EXTREMELY FRAGILE! TO BE HANDLED BY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY!
“What’s that?” Andy asked, his eyes following the path of the cable.
Winter shrugged. “Speakers, probably. C’mon, let’s interview the roadies. I’ll bet they have some great stories.”
When she turned to look for Karina’s road crew, Andy lifted a corner of the tarp with his toe. He caught a glimpse of shiny metal and glass, lots of wires, and something that looked like a lens sticking out before Winter nudged him and motioned toward the guy taking guitars out of their cases and setting them in stands.
“I’m going to talk to this guy. Why don’t you try him? He looks important.” She pointed across the stage at Silas, who was checking items off a list attached to a clipboard.
“Oh, okay,” said Andy. “Catch up with you in five minutes.”
He went to Silas, who led him to the far side of the stage, out of Winter’s sight. “Anything to report yet?”
“A guy brought two big tanks into the concession stand,” Andy whispered. “I think it really is just CO2, though. He hooked one up to the soda machine, and it’s normal. At least it tasted normal to me.” He burped loudly, as if to prove his case. “Sorry, I had some root beer….”
“You said there were two tanks.”
“That’s right.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“They’re right next to each other.”
“And they’re identical?”
“Yeah, exactly. Except—”
“Except what?”
“Each one has a stripe painted around it at the top. One’s green, the other’s blue. He hooked up the tank with the blue stripe.”
“Got it. Blue stripe. Is anyone in the concession stand now?”
“It was all clear about five minutes ago.”
“Okay, good work. Anything else?”
“Just that thing,” said Andy, pointing at the black tarp. “I peeked under the cover, but I still don’t know what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it. Lots of wires and some lenses, I think.”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching. It’s going up to the ceiling—some kind of projector.”
“Kind of scary-looking. Like something from a science fiction movie.”
“Except this is real. Go on, you’d better get back over there with Winter. Report back here in exactly one hour. And take it easy on the root beer. That stuff will kill you.”
When Andy rejoined Winter, Silas checked the time and then made his way to the concession stand, where he listened at the door before pulling it open and stepping inside.
Behind the counter, the tanks looked the way Andy had described them, except for one important difference: Now both tanks were connected. A clear plastic hose, three-quarters of an inch in diameter, was screwed into the top of the tank with the blue stripe and led directly to the soda machine. It was the second tank, though, that worried Silas. For one thing, the stripe painted around it was red, not green.
“What the…Didn’t he say blue and green?” he wondered aloud. He reached up and turned the valve to open it ever so slightly. A pale green, lethal-looking gas began to creep along the transparent hose, and he quickly shut the valve, turning it until his hand ached.
Silas breathed in deeply and pulled up his wool socks, trying to maintain his own heart rate. It was really happening: NTRP was going after a bunch of kids. Snapping a picture of the hose and nozzle, he allowed himself a smile and sent it to Mrs. Cardigan with this message: Not today, NTRP.
With the help of his flashlight, he followed the hose, which ran under the counter for about eight feet and then turned downward, straight through the floor and into the basement. Silas had to be absolutely certain that the tank and the hose were exactly what he thought they were, so he got his bearings, measuring the approximate distance from the walls, and quietly slipped down the stairs. The basement was remarkably clean and well lit, and he set out to find the spot directly beneath the concession stand. He shone a flashlight at the ceiling above him. It was too high to reach, so he found a stepladder and climbed it. Poking his head up into the ductwork and conduit, he felt around for that plastic hose until he finally had it between the fingers of his left hand. Without letting go, he reached into his pocket and unfolded the small blade of his Swiss Army knife.
“Try a little to your right,” said a man’s voice.
Silas froze, grasping the hose and waiting for the ladder to be kicked out from under him.
“Don’t stop now. You’re so close,” the man said. “Did you find it? It runs along the electrical conduit and then back up into the auditorium’s ventilation system. But then you already knew that, didn’t you? Now drop the pocketknife. Nice and easy. No sudden moves.”
Silas dropped the knife, and it clattered against the concrete floor. He cursed himself for allowing himself to be caught so completely off guard. His left hand still held on to the flimsy plastic hose, however, and thinking quickly, he pressed it into the narrow space between two ceiling beams, kinking it and squeezing it shut. Some gas might get through, but the flow would be reduced by ninety percent. Enough, he hoped, to foil NTRP’s plan. Then he lowered his head and turned to see who had joined him in the basement.
Naturally, he was dressed in a shark-gray suit that perfectly matched the color of his hair. His gun, pointed at Silas’s heart, was the same cold gray.
“Come on down from there,” said St. John de Spere. “That’s good. Hands where I can see them. No reason for anyone to get hurt here. Now have a seat over there on the floor, with your back to those pipes.” He placed a hand on Silas’s shoulder and gave a gentle push.
Instinctively, Silas recoiled from the touch, moving forward and out of reach.
De Spere laughed. “Oh. Riiight. I forgot. You don’t like to be touched. Sorry about that. Here, you can put these on yourself.” He tossed a couple of heavy-duty plastic ties to Silas. “Slip those on your wrists and pull them tight. I’m afraid I may have to touch you again.” He used a third tie to strap Silas to a two-inch steel pipe.
“Now, your phone. Where is it?”
“Coat pocket. Right side.”
De Spere reached in and took the phone, examining it carefully before asking, “Password?”
“I forget.”
De Spere laughed aloud. “Fine. We’ll talk later. I’ll keep this safe for you in the meantime, in case you suddenly remember.”
“You won’t get away with this. We know who you are. James Thorneside. Grootman College, Cambridge, class of…Oh, right, you didn’t graduate. You were expelled. For conducting unauthorized experiments, which you’re still doing. The only difference is that instead of laboratory rats, now you’re experimenting on human beings.”
“Bravo. Shall I tell you everything I know about you? You might be surprised. You see, I know things about you that even you don’t know. To tell you the truth, though, you’re quite boring—you and your zebra finches. I even know the reason for your special interest in them. It seems there’s no end to your idealism. Your protégé, on the other hand, young Mr. Llewellyn, is another story. Ah, I see that you’re surprised that we know about him. That, in a nutshell, is why you pathetic Agents of the Glass will fail. You’re constantly underestimating us. Well, that ends today. And good riddance to all that mumbly-jumbly piffle about altruism and compassion. That’s all so…twentieth century.”
He strode toward the door, turning back with that coy I-know-something-you-don’t smile that infuriated Silas. “Talk to you later, Roger. No point in calling out for help—it’s like that line from the movie. This place is like space: No one can hear you scream.”
Meanwhile, Andy and Winter continued their reporting of every behind-the-scenes moment they could stick their noses into. Every chance she had, Winter stopped by the concession stand for a soda refill.
“As long as NTRP is paying for it, we might as well take advantage of it,” she said.
Andy stared uncertainly into his cup of root beer, his third. “You didn’t say that NTRP was paying for it. You just said one of the sponsors.”
“What difference does it make? Do you really think it matters if two more kids get some free stuff? Those kids who won the contest—they’re all getting brand-new tablets, along with bags of cool gear. So drink up.”
A check of his watch told him that it was time to meet Silas backstage. “I, uh, need to, uh, you know…”
“You are adorable,” said Winter. “It’s okay. You can say you have to go to the bathroom. I understand. As a matter of fact, I need to go, too. Let’s take a little break. Meet me in the back of the auditorium in…say, ten minutes.”
He ran to the bathroom and then to the stage, looking for Silas. When he still hadn’t shown up five minutes later, Andy sent a text—which, of course, Silas didn’t receive because his phone was in St. John de Spere’s pocket. Andy had no choice but to contact Mrs. Cardigan, so he sent this text: Checked in on time, but S didn’t show up.
She responded immediately: Don’t worry. He contacted me. Everything is under control.
And then Andy got his first real surprise of the day.
He left through the wings, started up the center aisle of the auditorium, and stopped in his tracks. Standing a few feet inside the swinging doors at the main entrance to the auditorium was Jensen Huntley, wearing, to Andy’s surprise, a sweatshirt with the NTRP logo plastered across the front.
“Jensen!”
She turned, her face emotionless. “Oh. Hey, Andy. How are you?”
“How am I? Where have you been? First I thought you were arrested, then kidnapped, then I hear that you’re in California. And now you’re here. Wearing…that. What is going on?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. All that was…It’s over now. I just wanna see the concert. You know, I’m actually starting to like Karina Jellyby. I didn’t think I’d be able to get in, but your friend Winter…I guess she has some good connections, ’cause she got me this,” she said, holding up a VIP pass.
Andy was seething. “Wait a minute. Nothing is ‘over.’ You hate NTRP. Do you even know what’s happened since the night I saw them dragging you away? Remember Ilene Porter? The woman from the Halestrom Conference? Well, she’s dead. We found her…right after you interviewed her. Even the police don’t know that she’s…They just think she’s missing.”
“C’est la vie. Nothing to do with me.”
“Are you kidding me? It has everything to do with you. It was your story—the library books and the fire at that warehouse where they burned all those books, including Jane Eyre! And then you gave me the Porter interview. You clipped the flash drive to Penny’s collar. Do you even remember that?”
