The Split Second (24 page)

Just as he hoped, the Neanderthal smirked and started untying Becker’s hands.

“I got a better idea,” the leader of the cell stepped in between the two. “Go take a breather and watch the old man.”

A long moment of eye contact between Thibadeau and the Flavor Miner stretched like a taut rope, but eventually the larger man backed down.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch,” the Frenchman chided Becker, alone with him for the first time since The Tide’s arrival. “Fixer Blaque always said you had to get into the head of your enemy to fully understand him.”

“At least one of us was paying attention.” Becker was bummed, for though the ropes were loosened, he still couldn’t pull his hands free.

“Maybe I was paying attention too much.”

Thibadeau gave his prisoner a playful elbow and plopped down beside him. For a second, Becker was reminded of when the two Candidates were almost like brothers, and conversations like this revolved around getting their Badges or how to meet girls. But that memory was fleeting, and the truth was more like what Thibadeau had predicted when they’d parted ways at The Slumber Party. “Next time we see each other . . . it won’t be the same,” he had said. And it wasn’t.

“I just want you to know . . . Big Ben is the best Minuteman in Time. The Split Second is in good hands.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Becker turned away and stared at the building across the street, where some random New Yorker was unpacking groceries, unaware.

“Believe me, Draniac. I had no idea it would come to this.” Thib seemed genuinely tormented by what had happened. “I was given assurances that no one would be hurt. In The World
or
The Seems.”

“Then you’re living in a fantasy World.”

“No, I’m living in the real World—where things are a little more complicated than black and white.”

Thibadeau shook his head, almost like there was something he wished he could tell Becker, but wasn’t able to.

“I don’t understand you.” Becker’s voice softened, though the muscles in his stomach were twisted in knots. “How can you try to be friends with me after everything that happened?”

“Because I
am
your friend.”

“Do me a favor . . .” The Fixer shook his head in disbelief. “Put the gag back in.”

Thibadeau angrily obliged, then headed back to where Triton was deep in conversation with the Time Being. But he stopped halfway.

“By the way . . . was it good to see Amy again?”

Becker felt his face flush with both embarrassment and rage. How could he know about that Frozen Moment, unless . . .

But Thibadeau had already turned away.

Alton Forest, Caledon, Ontario

The five charter members of Les Resistance tromped back down the trail to the bike rack that lay at the mouth of Alton Forest. The day had been eventful not only because of the preplanned goal of completing principal construction on the fort, but due to what had already come to be known as “the bizarre incident of the falling tree.”

“I strongly believe the trunk was infested with termites and ready to go at any moment,” announced Vikram, untethering his bicycle from its lock. “It’s the only logical conclusion.”

“I think it’s magic,” declared Rachel, attaching a series of clips and pins to her sleeves and skirt to avoid them being tangled up in the chain of the bike. “Things happen every day that can’t be explained by modern science.”

Whatever had happened, Jennifer knew the members of Les Resistance were likely to argue about it all night. That was part of resisting, she supposed, and it never got in the way of their fun. All around them, the crickets had begun to chirp and the magic hour of twilight bathed the forest in purple and blue.

“You guys hit the road . . .” JK pretended to be unlocking her bike as well. “I’m goin’ the other way, ’cause I’m having dinner at my uncle’s tonight.”

Everybody put their hands in the center of a circle and on the count of three, they shouted the same cheer that adjourned any meeting of the secret order they’d grown to know and love.

“Les Resistance is never futile!”

After a few high-fives and hugs, Jennifer watched as the gaggle of misfits peddled into the night.

“Hey, Moreau. Do you think it’s part of the plan if I kick you off your bike?” she heard the always-cutting Rob laugh and shout at his sister.

“Only if it’s part of the plan if I kick you in the shin!” Claudia chided back, and Jennifer cracked up. But as soon they had faded into the dusk, she left her lock squarely around her Schwinn and dialed her dad’s cell phone. It rang twice before he answered.

“Jenny?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“Is construction done for the day?”

“Yep. We managed to install the second-floor deck
and
the master bedroom!”

“Does this mean you’re getting your own show on HGTV?”

“Very funny.” Jennifer could hear voices in the background and knew that meant her father’s party was still going on. “Listen, um, Vikram’s mom invited us all over dinner and I was, uh, wondering—”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve been out since early this
morning.”

“Pleeease, Dad. Everybody’s going.”

“On one condition.”

“What?”

“Bring me back some of that flan she always makes.”

“You mean naan!”

“Some of that too.”

She could tell her father was in a good mood and his important day of fresh-squeezed orange juice and big deals must have gone well.

“And be careful. There’s a lot of crazies out there.”

“I will. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.”

Jennifer hung up the phone, then snuck back into the woods before any of the rangers who were closing up the park could notice. She was happy to be alone and unencumbered because that feeling she’d gotten right before the tree fell was still in the base of her stomach. She had definitely felt this sensation before, like when she was alone in her room late at night or before a thunderstorm. But this time it was speaking to her directly, and she couldn’t stop thinking about what it said.

Something was on its way to Alton Forest—something big—and she wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

274 West 12
^th
Street, New York, New York

Daniel J. Sullivan, aka the “Keeper of the Records,” had been largely forgotten among the proceedings on the rooftop garden of the Time Being. Like Becker Drane, he had been bound and gagged, but in all the fiddle faddle, no one had really stopped to give him the time of day. Sully had listened intently nonetheless, for this had always been his strong suit and because his intellectual curiosity was piqued—especially once the Calling Card lit up and the figure of Triton appeared.

“You don’t have to answer me now,” implored the head of the Seemsian underground. “I’m just asking you to consider the offer.”

Triton and the Time Being had been communicating for over ten minutes and Sully had processed every word of their exchange. “The offer,” as it were, was Triton’s assertion that a veritable who’s who of important figures in The Seems had already signed on to be part of the committee that would help The Tide fashion a new World. The only caveat was that they wouldn’t fully commit unless the highly respected Sophie Temporale threw her hat into the ring as well.

“With you on board, our cause would gain real credibility amongst the Seemsian populace.” The charismatic speaker was far less sinister in person than Sully had imagined. “And it would also be a chance to implement your proposals from the original World Project that were so thoughtlessly rejected at the time.”

Sully’s eyes fell to the ground, where a book known as
The
Grand Scheme of Things
lay in the shattered glass case at his feet. Inside its plain white cover was the original design document for The World. The Keeper had been seeking a copy for most of his adult life, because he believed his theory of what was behind the Plan could be proved by what was on those pages. But if Sophie agreed to Triton’s proposal, the question—and his longsuffering project—would suddenly be moot.

“Any changes to Time would be subject to your approval, of course.” Triton’s garbled image flickered for a moment before regaining its original strength. “But I was really hoping you would help us follow up on a recent discovery I’ve made about the Most Amazing Thing of All.”

The Most Amazing Thing of All was what many believed to be the answer to an ancient riddle—“If The Seems is building The World, then who’s building The Seems?”—and Sully wasn’t the only one whose ears perked up.

“And I would still be able to keep my apartment in the city?”

“Of course.”

“What about the old World?” asked the Time Being, betraying her interest in the process. “Are you planning to institute the changes gradually, or does it have to be scrapped all at once?”

Everyone close enough to hear watched—riveted—as Triton considered this point.

“Open for discussion.”

He abruptly looked to his left, as if someone was coming, not here but from wherever he was broadcasting. When he turned back to the Time Being, his voice had dropped to a whisper.

“If you are interested in this offer, take the last train out to the End of the Line tomorrow evening, where I will be waiting to show you what I found. If not, I thank you for this opportunity, and wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.”

As his image began to dissolve into nothingness, Triton offered another elegant bow.

“Until we meet again.”

On that note, the Calling Card went dark and the wiry Drifter unplugged the rabbit-ear antenna from the back.

“That’s a wrap, boss.”

“Bon.”
Thibadeau snapped his fingers. “Then we too must hit the road.”

Like a well-oiled machine, the remaining members of the cell collected their equipment, and Sully actually allowed himself to think he might survive this fiasco. This, he feared, was a terrible mistake, for something told him that the very thought in his head was already sending a signal to a certain firehouse in the fictional town of “Jinxville,” where alarms were sounding and a team of pointy-hatted, curly-toed-boot-wearing Gnomes were gathering around their high-tech conference table to gleefully orchestrate an unpleasant Chain of Ev—

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” The Wordsmith stopped at the entrance to the staircase and pointed to everyone on the roof who was not a Time Being or a member of The Tide. “These guys know who we are.”

“Smithy’s right.” A malicious grin slowly spread across the Flavor Miner’s face, and he focused on Becker Drane. “It’s time to do a little roof cleaning.”

“What’s the point?” Thibadeau shrugged. “Our identities have already been compromised.”

“Yours, maybe.” The Drifter put the Calling Card back in its case. “But the rest of us weren’t stupid enough to blow our covers.”

“You don’t think Central Command checked the Time cards?” Thibadeau shot back. “Or scoured that security cam footage for every last detail?” The look on the faces of his men said they hadn’t considered these unpleasant possibilities. “Right now, a Fixer or a Briefer is rifling through your offices and dresser drawers, your friends and family members are being interrogated, and your careers in The Seems are as good as over.”

“Unless we win,” interjected Lena from beneath the cover of a small banyan tree.

“
Oui
, unless we win.” Thibadeau turned to the woman whom Sully assumed was his girlfriend. “But I am not a murderer.”

“Which is why this is not your decision to make.” Lena emerged from the shadows and reached for the Frenchman, but he took a reflexive step backward.

“Madame Temporale,” Thib was imploring the Time Being with his eyes as much as his voice. “Surely you cannot let this happen in your own home?”

Sophie’s face remained impassive, however.

“I’m curious to see how an organization that seeks to make a new World handles such a situation,” she said, taking a seat and crossing her legs. “Decisions like this will be an everyday occurrence should you become the Powers That Be.”

Sully kind of wished she hadn’t said that, because Lena’s expression grew even colder, and she turned to the Flavor Miner. “Do it.”

“My pleasure.”

Faced with the prospect of his untimely end, the Keeper of the Records took some comfort in the fact that he would probably be the last of the three captives to be thrown from the roof. That would give him perhaps thirty seconds to dive to the ground, smash what was left of the glass case with his forehead, then use his chin to open
The Grand Scheme of Things
and find out if the foreword said what it was rumored to say. But as the Flavor Miner patiently donned a pair of black gloves, Sully was distracted by something over by the staircase.

It was the silhouette of a man, crouching on the steps that led to Sophie’s apartment. The fallen darkness kept most of his face shrouded, but Sully could just make out an index finger being raised to a pair of bearded lips. Whoever he was, it felt to the Keeper like he was being invited into a really good game of hide-and-seek, as long as he kept his mouth shut.

“Then you leave me no choice.” Thibadeau Freck stepped in between the Miner and the thirteen-year-old Fixer. “I can’t let you do this.”

“Suit yourself.” The Miner motioned for the others to join him. “I always figured you for gutless.”

The Wordsmith grabbed one of Sophie’s shovels, the Drifter an awl, and they joined their mate in squaring off against the Frenchman. This removed them from the path of the moonlight, which now fell squarely on the figure who was skulking in the stairwell. Sully didn’t recognize his face at all, but there was something about the man’s strange choice of apparel that rang a distant bell. Though most of his years as a Case Worker were lost to his memory, the Keeper was pretty sure he’d seen the same aviator’s helmet and brown bomber’s jacket on a statue outside the Big Building.

“Waitamminit!” Sully blurted out loud, though no one on the roof could really understand what he was ranting about. Not until he shoved away the gag with his tongue and shouted at the top of his lungs, “I know who you are!”