The Paladin Prophecy (20 page)

Will read NATIONAL SCHOLASTIC EVALUATION AGENCY across the top of a bound text, about sixteen pages long. He recognized the questions on the first page.

“Is that yours?” she asked.

The proctor in charge had used a machine to stamp each copy when kids turned them in. The stamp on Will’s read 11:43 a.m.

“It looks like it.”

“The test began at nine o’clock. You had three hours to complete it. You turned yours in at seventeen minutes to noon—look at the time stamp. You told me you finished it in twenty minutes.” She didn’t sound mad, or accusatory, just neutral.

“I did,” said Will.

“Why didn’t you turn it in when you finished?”

“Same reason. I waited until half the group turned theirs in first—”

“So you wouldn’t stand out. I get it. Do you have any way to
prove
that you finished it in twenty minutes?”

“No. But that’s the truth.”

Robbins took a moment, collecting her thoughts. She set a single page in front of him: the
results
of his test from the National Scholastic Evaluation Agency.

“You answered every question correctly,” she said. “Four hundred and seventy-five questions. Science, math, logic, English, and reading comprehension. Explain how you could have done
that
in twenty minutes if you weren’t trying—”

“I can’t, I don’t know—”

“—and how this was part of your plan to blend in?”

“I didn’t
mean
to do that. I only glanced at it. I didn’t try to get them wrong on
purpose
. I just checked the first thing that came into my head.”

“So how
do
we account for it? Luck? Intuition? They’ve been conducting these tests for decades and this has never happened before. Not once, out of
millions
. You didn’t see a copy of the test beforehand, did you?”

“No. They didn’t even tell us ahead of time. They just showed up that day and laid it on us.”

Robbins looked at him hard. “Well, I don’t know what to think about this.”

Will’s heart raced to the edge of panic. “Do you think I cheated? Are you going to take back my scholarship?”

“No, Will. That’s not even a consideration. As unlikely as this seems, I believe you. Not only do I think you deserve to be here, but also I believe you
need
to be. I can’t tell you exactly why I feel that way, any more than I can explain how
this
happened.”

Will thought about it. “Who else could have seen these results?”

“I don’t know, outside of the Agency,” she said, then looked up at him alertly. “You think the people who came looking for you had access to your test.”

“Maybe,” said Will. “I can’t think of another reason why total strangers would take an interest in me. What do you know about this company?”

“The National Scholastic Evaluation Agency’s been in business for over twenty-five years—”

“But who are they? A private company?”

“As far as I know they’re a nonprofit foundation that receives some government funding—”

There was a knock at the door. Dan McBride opened it and looked in with a smile. “Hope we’re not intruding?” he asked.

McBride entered, followed by Headmaster Rourke. Both shook Will’s hand and exchanged pleasantries as they sat. “We spent hours discussing you yesterday, Will,” said Rourke. “Your ears must have been burning.”

“Why?”

“You present a dilemma for us,” said Rourke. “With only five weeks left in the term, it’s neither sensible nor fair to place you on a grading curve. So you’ll just be auditing courses for now. It’ll give you time to catch up before the new term, acclimate to life here. It’s not just our goal to educate students; we want to create
student-citizens
.” Rourke nodded at McBride.

“Here, then, are the units we’d like to start with,” said McBride.

McBride handed him a list with four classes that sounded nothing like any he’d ever taken before. All but the last had extensive reading lists:

CIVICS: PROFILES IN POWER AND REALPOLITIK

AMERICAN LITERATURE: EMERSON, THOREAU, AND THE AMERICAN IDEAL

SCIENCE: GENETICS—TOMORROW’S SCIENCE TODAY

PHYSICAL EDUCATION: FALL SPORTS

“One meets Tuesdays and Thursdays,” said McBride. “The others on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The phys ed unit runs through the week.”

Will pointed to American Literature. “Is this your class, Mr. McBride?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t resist,” said McBride with a grin.

“As far as sports are concerned,” said Rourke, “it’s also too late for you to officially join teams, but no one objects to your
training
with them.”

“Cross-country?” asked Will.

“I’ve already spoken to Coach Jericho. If you like, you can pick up your gear at the field house after class today and get back on the track.”

After two days without training, Will couldn’t wait to run again. His body and mind craved the relief. “Done,” he said.

The headmaster stood up and shook his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Will, I’m late for a staff meeting.”

Rourke took his leave. They were about to resume when Will’s pager beeped. A red light flashed inside the grill. He pushed the button and the beeping stopped.

“I’m supposed to check with an operator, isn’t that right?” asked Will.

“Use my phone,” said Robbins. “Hit zero. An operator will put you through.”

“I did have one question for you guys,” said Will as he moved to the phone.

“What’s that, Will?” asked McBride.

#59: SOMETIMES YOU FIND OUT MORE WHEN YOU ASK QUESTIONS TO WHICH YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER.

“My roommates mentioned something about a kid named Ronnie Murso?”

He could tell by their expressions that he’d caught them off guard. Will picked up the phone and dialed. The operator came on immediately:

“How may I connect your call?” said another flat, happy midwestern voice.

“This is Will West. I got a page?”

“One moment, please.”

A clipped male voice came on: “Mr. West, this is Dr. Kujawa, over at the medical clinic?”

“Did you page me, sir?”

“I did. We met yesterday, but you were unconscious at the time. I put those stitches in your head. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“Glad to hear that. Mr. West, I’ve got some test results here that I need to go over with you. Could you come by my office right away?”

“Why, is something wrong?” asked Will.

“We’ll discuss it when you get here. Please ask Dr. Robbins to come with you. I’d like her to see this as well.”

Will hung up. “Dr. Kujawa wants to see us both,” he said.

“We’ll talk on the way,” said Robbins. “And I’ll tell you about Ronnie Murso.”

THE MEDICAL CENTER

Will had to work to keep pace with Dr. Robbins as they crossed campus. A breeze had kicked up and the frigid air slapped at his face. Dr. Robbins hardly seemed to notice.

“Ronnie Murso came in as a freshman last year,” said Robbins. “He had trouble adjusting to life away from home. A lot of new students do. He also had serious family issues; his parents had just divorced. When school ended, Ronnie was scheduled to split time with them over the summer. He took a vacation with his father first, at the end of the term. A fishing trip in a remote part of Canada. When their scout plane went back to pick them up, they weren’t at the rendezvous point. Searches were organized. Police got involved. To make a long story short, they never found them. Ronnie and his father disappeared.”

#92: IF YOU WANT PEOPLE TO TELL YOU MORE, SAY LESS. OPEN YOUR EYES AND EARS, AND CLOSE YOUR MOUTH.

“There are theories,” said Robbins. “Ronnie was their only child, and his mother is convinced Ronnie’s father kidnapped him to deny her custody. That he ran off with Ronnie to start a new life somewhere. If that is the case, no one’s found them yet.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s possible, but I think it’s more likely they got lost, or ran into trouble, and something tragic happened. But until someone finds them, we’ll never know.”

“Is that why you waited before putting anyone else into his room?”

“In part. For people involved in something like this, it’s often harder not knowing what’s happened than it is being told for sure.”

“So why did you put
me
in there?”

She stopped, looked at him searchingly. “Why is this so important to you?”

“I guess I’m a little sensitive,” said Will. “I just spent the freakiest twenty-four hours of my life getting here, only to find out I’m living in the room of a kid who mysteriously disappeared six months ago.”

Robbins put a hand on his shoulder. “I understand your concern, Will. It’s perfectly natural. But what happened to Ronnie doesn’t in any way involve you.”

There’s something she’s not telling me
. Will didn’t know how he knew it—instinct, intuition, whatever. But now wasn’t the time to push her about it.

#60: IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE ANSWER YOU GET, YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE ASKED THE QUESTION.

They arrived at the medical center without another word. Set apart from the quad, it was the most modern building on campus—a six-story tower of blue-tinted glass and steel. Some donor had written a large check to put their name here: Large brushed silver letters identified it as the Haxley Medical Center.

They took an elevator to the fifth floor. Dr. Kujawa welcomed them and led them to an adjacent exam room. He wore a white lab coat with DR. KEN KUJAWA embroidered on the upper left chest. Kujawa looked trim and fit—early forties, Will guessed—with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper brush cut and a brusque, no-nonsense manner.

“Have a seat right there, Mr. West,” said Dr. Kujawa, nodding to a table. “How’s your head feeling?”

“Right now it feels fine,” said Will.

“Let’s have a look.”

Kujawa bent over him, parted Will’s hair, and examined the wound. “That’s what I thought,” he said cryptically. He waved Robbins over to see it; then they looked at each other.

“What’s the problem?” asked Will.

“Come into my office,” said Dr. Kujawa.

They followed him into his office, where Kujawa took a seat at his desk and punched up data on a sleek desktop version of a Center tablet.

“Your transcript said you’re a runner. Is that right, Mr. West?” he asked.

“Yes. Cross-country.”

“Have you ever, to your knowledge, taken, used, or been given any performance-enhancing drugs?”

“What?”

“They would have been classified as an ESA, or erythropoiesis-stimulating agent. Pharmaceutical product. Administered by injection.”

“No,” said Will, looking at Robbins with alarm. “Never. Absolutely not.”

Kujawa continued matter-of-factly. “They stimulate the body’s production of a hormone called erythropoietin. EPO substantially increases production of red blood cells, which radically increases the amount of oxygen carried to your muscles. Enables athletes to perform at a premium in sports demanding high endurance, like biking, rowing, or running.”

Will’s anger built steadily. “That’s called blood doping.”

“Have you heard of HGH or human growth hormone? Because your blood levels are also nearly double the average for your age and size—”

“If you’re accusing me of taking drugs, I swear to you that has never happened.”

Kujawa didn’t react, just looked at him, neutral, appraising. Waiting.

“It’s not that he doesn’t believe you, Will,” said Robbins calmly. “Go on, Ken.”

“EPO and HGH also enhance the body’s ability to heal, from life-threatening wounds down to micro-tears in muscle fibers. The obvious value to athletes is it speeds recovery. Not just from injuries but also from routine training.”

Kujawa pulled a mirror from the top drawer of his desk and a smaller hand mirror from his coat. He walked over to Will. “You suffered a gash in your scalp that was an inch long. I needed six stitches to close it. Roughly twenty-four hours ago. Take a look at it now.”

Kujawa positioned one mirror above Will’s scalp and gave the other to Will to hold in front of his eyes. Then he moved Will’s hair to the side so he could see the site.

The wound was gone. No scar, no scab, not even any stitches. Just a slight white discoloration.

“Not only is the wound healed, but your body’s already assimilated the dissolving stitches, which normally takes more than a week. This, to put it mildly, is more than a little unusual.” Kujawa put the mirrors away, took some printed pages off his desk, and handed them to Dr. Robbins.

“I ran a panel of routine tests with the blood I drew yesterday,” he said. “The oxygen-binding capacity of your blood is off the charts, over
three times
the high end of normal. You’d make Lance Armstrong in his prime look like an invalid.”

“I don’t understand this,” said Will. “It’s not possible. This has to be some kind of crazy mistake.”

Robbins was still staring at the results, pale, brow furrowed, deep in thought.

“I don’t think so,” said Kujawa. “To that end I’d like to run more tests, to determine whether your body produced these levels on its own or if they were synthetically created and, maybe by some method unknown to you, introduced into your system. Have you ever been given any injections?”

“No.”

“What about any unusual vitamins or supplements?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Will.

“It would be helpful to see your medical records. Yearly physicals, vaccinations, that sort of thing. Could you ask your parents to send them to me?”

“Of course,” said Will.

The truth was a lot more awkward:
He couldn’t remember ever
visiting
a doctor
. His father kept a weathered black leather bag in their bedroom closet that contained a stethoscope; exam instruments for ears, nose, and throat; a blood pressure cuff; and syringes for drawing blood. He used them to give Will a comprehensive checkup twice a year. For the longest time, Will had assumed that’s what every family did. But there was another factor in this unusual routine: Will had never
needed
a doctor. Because as far back as he could remember—his entire
life
—he’d never been sick. Not once.