Gatekeepers Page 3

  David whispered, “Clayton?”

  A gasp, more sniffing. “D-D-David?” Fear and panic were in his voice.

  David raised his hand. He found a face, wet and gooey. Gross. He wiped it away on his pants. He said, “Clayton, what are you doing in here?”

  “You . . . you put me here!”

  “I mean, still? Why didn’t you leave?”

  “I . . . I can’t!” Clayton said. “I can’t get out. And . . . I thought I heard . . . noises.”

  Could he really not find the little tab on the latch assembly that released the door catch? The kid must have been pretty shaken up, zipping into David’s house and back again to the locker. True, it was disorienting, but that much? Maybe Clayton thought David had sent him someplace else, like a grave.

  David had another thought: he had teleported to a place where another person already was. He remembered what his brother had said when he suggested to Xander that they both go through the locker-linen closet portal at the same time: “In The Fly, two life forms ended up all mixed together.”

  What if he and Clayton had melded together?

  Oh, man!

  But that hadn’t happened. They’d wound up in the same tight place, but separate and whole. He hoped. He patted his chest, neck, face. No extra parts. Nothing missing.

  Clayton said, “What kind of tricks are you pulling on me! What’s happening?”

  “Clayton, calm down.”

  David thought about their location: a locker in a short hallway off the main one. Turning left led to the middle school classrooms. On the right would be the cafeteria’s doors. Even the janitor would be gone at this hour—other-wise he would have heard Clayton, got him out, and their secret would be blown.

  He said, “I’ll get you out of here, but you have to promise never, ever to tell anyone what happened. Not about this locker, not . . . Hey, how did you know to get in the locker anyway?”

  Clayton sniffed. “When I was after you. I thought I saw the door close, thought I had you. But when I looked, you were gone. Then I heard your freak brother calling for you. I came back to check it out.”

  “You can’t ever tell anyone, you hear?”

  “Are you kidding? You are so busted. I’m going to make sure your—your coven fries for this, for this witchcraft . . .”

  “Okay,” David said. “See ya.”

  “No, wait! Wait! Get me out of here. I was just kidding, really.”

  “I can put you back anytime I want to,” David said as menacingly as he could. “You understand?”

  Clayton started crying again.

  David felt sorry for him. A little. He thought of something else, just in case the scare tactic didn’t work. He reached behind him.

  “Hey,” Clayton said. “What are you doing? What’s that?”

  The flash was blinding in the darkness.

  David looked at the picture on Xander’s cell phone. Tears and snot covered Clayton’s terrified face. He turned it for the bully to see, then hit save and shifted the phone to his bad hand. He pushed his arm between Clayton and the locker wall, found the catch, and opened the door.

  Clayton spilled out onto the tile floor of the school hallway. He flashed a stunned expression at David, standing in the locker.

  David snapped another picture. He said, “Stay quiet and these pictures never make it to the Internet. And remember, snot-face, I can put you back in here.”

  He reached out, grabbed the edge of the locker door, and pulled it shut.

  CHAPTER

  five

  TUESDAY,8.23 P.M

  The kids stood around the island in the kitchen, staring down at plates of soggy spaghetti. David cut away a chunk and forked it into his mouth. The meat sauce didn’t help. It still felt like bloated worms on his tongue.

  “I gotta go,” Xander said. He pushed aside his plate and picked up Dad’s keys.

  ”Don’t do it, Xander,” Toria pleaded. Spaghetti sauce coated her lips and face, as though she had tried to put on lipstick while bouncing on a bed.

  “We need to know what’s going on,” Xander said. “I need to talk to Dad.”

  “You can’t take the car,” David said, swallowing hard. His stomach threatened to send the food back up—he didn’t know if it was the nasty pasta or the thought of being alone with Toria in the house. “You only have a permit.”

  Xander rolled his eyes. “Driving without a parent in the car is the least of our worries.” He picked up his coat and tugged it on. “Look, just stay down here. If anything makes a noise upstairs, run out the front door.”

  “That cop said they were sending a car over,” David reminded him.

  “That’s why I can’t wait around.” Xander headed for the door.

  David and Toria rushed around the island to join him.

  “Take us with you,” Toria said.

  Xander stopped. He put his hand on his sister’s head. “We already talked about this. Someone needs to stay to keep people out. If they bust me, at least you guys will be here.”

  “Will you get Dad out?” Toria said.

  Xander shook his head. “I just want to talk to him.”

  “You probably won’t even get that close,” David said. “It’s a jail.”

  “David, I know!” Xander said. His shoulders slumped.

  “I have to try.” He looked out the window beside the door.

  “No one’s here yet. When I come back, I’ll park up the road and cut through the trees. Listen for me knocking on the back door, okay?”

  David nodded. He thought about saying If you come back at all, but it was nothing Xander didn’t already know.

  Xander opened the door and slipped out.

  David pushed it shut and bolted it. Toria gripped his hand. They watched through the window as Xander reached the 4Runner, climbed in, and drove off.

  They turned in the foyer and gazed up to the second floor. David remembered the first day they’d found the house. Toria had gone missing, and then her footsteps had seemed to clomp on for a lot longer than they should have.

  “Let’s . . . uh . . . ” He tried to think of something else. If he heard footsteps now, he would drop over dead. “Let’s see what else we got in the kitchen.”

  “There’s a lotta s’ghetti,” Toria said.

  “Great.”

  They walked hand in hand toward the kitchen, David focusing on the lighted room ahead of them. He was sure, sure he would see shadows moving on the second floor if he looked.

  CHAPTER

  six

  TUESDAY, 8.30 P.M

  “That’s not what we agreed,” Taksidian told the man standing in front of him. They stood in the parking lot of the cabin-sized building that acted as Pinedale’s sheriff ’s office and jail. “All of them out of the house. That’s what I wanted.”

  He rubbed his sharp nails over the scar on the back of his hand. It was all he could do to keep from wringing the man’s neck.

  Sheriff Bartlett pushed his fingers up under his hat to scratch his head. The light from a streetlamp cast itself on the man’s displeased features. He said, “What we got here, Mr. Taksidian, is a favor that went awry. You spoke to the mayor, who suggested we take immediate action to remove that family from the house. But, sir, those aren’t the proper channels. If those kids were really in danger, we got procedures. There’s a child services office over in—”

  “I know,” Taksidian said. He brushed his long, kinky hair from his face: he knew his gaunt features, thin lips and unflinching eyes were intimidating, and he wanted the the man to get a clear view of them. “That takes days, even weeks, especially considering the father’s position at the school.”

  The sheriff nodded. “They did a thorough background check before he was hired. The man has an impeccable record. No complaints, no—”

  “Sheriff Bartlett,” Taksidian said with a heavy sigh. “I’m interested only in the children’s safety.” An image of their freshly covered graves flashed in his head, and he resisted smil
ing. “I’m sure once they are out of the house and the proper authorities have an opportunity to investigate, they will find evidence of child endangerment. If not from the parents, then from the house itself.”

  “The house?” the sheriff said, a puzzled look crossing his face.

  “I mean, of course, from the condition of the house,” Taksidian said. “It’s not fit to live in.”

  “Look, sir,” the sheriff said, puffing out his chest. “I was willing to accommodate a request from the mayor, since it didn’t seem like such a big deal . . . with the possibility that you’re right about the dangers and all. But those kids didn’t want to come, and physically removing them—Well, that’s a whole ’nother matter. That’s a line I won’t cross, not without a warrant, sir, no way. The only reason we got the father in there”—he hitched a thumb at the jail—“is he accosted one of my deputies. And quite frankly, I don’t blame him. Unless you can get child services down here fast, I can’t hold him.”

  Taksidian pointed a gnarled finger at the man’s face. He said, “Listen, the mayor—”

  A phone chirped.

  Taksidian tightened his lips and gave the sheriff his most piercing glare. Keeping his finger up, he removed a mobile phone from his pocket and flicked it open. “What?”

  A child’s voice said, “Uh . . . is this Mr. Taksidian?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A friend of mine . . . from school . . . he gave me your number. You stopped him and his friends on their way home. He said you were asking about that old house outside of town. The haunted one?”

  Taksidian turned from the sheriff and stepped away. He spoke quietly into the phone. “I was asking about the family who lives there.”

  “Well, I thought . . . the house, the family—same thing, you know?” said the boy on the other end. “He said you offered . . . uh, money for information?”

  Behind him, the sheriff ’s footsteps crunched over gravel. He was walking back to the jailhouse.

  “Hold on,” Taksidian said and lowered the phone. “Sheriff ?” When the man turned to him, he said, “Keep that man locked up.”

  Sheriff Bartlett squinted at him. He said, “Mr. Taksidian, I got my deputies heading over to the house right now. I don’t want anything to happen to those kids.” He paused. “You catch my drift?”

  Taksidian glared at him, then turned his back on the man. Into the phone, he said, “What do you know?”

  The boy said, “I know how you can get inside. I mean, secretly.”

  CHAPTER

  seven

  TUESDAY, 8.55 P.M.

  Ed King sat on the metal cot in the jail cell. His head was lowered into his hands. All he could think about were his kids, left overnight in that house alone.

  Overnight? he thought. Who knew how long these yokels were going to keep him locked up? Not for the first time, he wished he could take it all back. He desperately wanted to be in their Pasadena house, his wife and children safe under the roof that had kept the world at bay for years.

  His mother had been gone thirty years. What had he been thinking, coming up here to find her? Bringing his family! He hadn’t even told them about the house, the dangers. He had lied to get them there.

  He slid his fingers onto his head and clutched two fistfuls of hair.

  That’s when the trouble had started—not when his wife had been kidnapped, but when he had started lying. He had convinced himself that they would have never agreed to moving into the old Victorian—or even to coming to Pinedale—if they had known how dangerous it was. And for what? So he could pursue the crazy dream of finding his mother, a dream—no, a need—he had since he was seven years old.

  So he’d pretended to know nothing about the house. He’d lied.

  He squeezed his eyes closed and tugged at his hair.

  What a fool he was.

  Now, he’d pulled his whole family into his deceit. He had the kids lying about where their mother was, saying she was in Pasadena, wrapping up the sale of their home. He had taught them to be honest, to live with integrity. Then he had told them to lie, that they had to lie.

  What a mess he’d made. Everything was spiraling out of control. He had to do something. He had to get them back on track, make everything right again. But what—

  Tap . . . tap . .

  He looked around, expecting to see a deputy at the bars. No one stood there.

  Tap.

  He stood and walked to the bars. There were four cells, two on either side of a short hallway. To his right, a door with a small window led to the sheriff ’s offices. The tapping came again, and he realized someone was softly rapping on the metal fire door at the other end of the hall, to his left. The knocks took on a pattern, a rhythm he recognized.

  Tap . . . tap, tap, tap . . . tap, tap . . . tap, tap.

  He smiled. It was the theme from The Last of the Mohicans, Xander’s favorite movie soundtrack. Every now and then, the boy would play it over and over—in his room, in the car—until the whole family felt as though it was their theme, the sound-track to their lives.

  “Xander?” he whispered, then shot a glance to the office door.

  The tapping continued.

  He noticed a wedge of wood on the floor by the door. He assumed it was used to prop it open when the cells became stuffy.

  “Hey!” he yelled, knowing Xander would hear and hoping he’d hide. The tapping stopped. “You, out there, in the office! Hey!” He kept yelling until the office door opened and a deputy stepped in.

  “I told you,” the man said. “No calls. Not till the sheriff says so, and he just went home, so—”

  “Could you turn down the heat?” Mr. King said, tugging at his shirt collar. “I’m burning up.” And it was true. He wiped off his forehead and held up his glistening palm.

  But the deputy said, “Feels okay to me.”

  “You want to feel my pits?” he said. “I’m sweating like a fat guy chasing a runaway M&M.” He eyed the guy’s protruding belly. “Sorry. I’m just telling you—”

  “I know, I know,” the deputy said. “You’re hot.” He grabbed the cell door and yanked. It rattled, but didn’t open. He went to the fire door, pushed the bar that opened it, and kicked the wedge in place. “Now you’re going to get cold,” he said.

  “I’ll yell when I do.”

  “Don’t bother.” The deputy went into the office and shut the door.

  A few seconds later, Xander’s face appeared in the open-ing. “All clear?” he whispered.

  Mr. King waved him in. “How did you know it was safe to knock?”

  Xander tiptoed up to the bars. “Movies,” he said, as though it were obvious. “The jail cells are always in the back, in a room of their own. That way the deputies don’t have to hear the prisoners grumbling or snoring or whatever.”

  “You were lucky,” Mr. King said. “Where are David and Toria?”

  “At the house.”

  “Xander . . .”

  “I’ll get right back,” Xander said. “I told them to stay down-stairs, by the door.”

  Mr. King nodded. “Can you believe this?”

  “What are we going to do? Can they just arrest you like that?

  How long—?”

  “It’s all garbage,” Mr. King said. “I overheard them talking. It’s all Taksidian. He got to the mayor. They can’t hold me long. First they said we were being evicted, then they said I assaulted one of them.”

  “But you didn’t!”

  “Shhh. I know that, and they know that. I think Taksidian just wanted us out for a while so he could plant some evidence in the house . . . or do something to the house that would force us to leave . . . or until he could bribe the right people into issuing a real eviction notice or charge me with child endangerment . . . What are you smiling about?”

  “Child endangerment,” Xander said. “I think that house fits the bill. And you did bring us there.”

  Mr. King dropped his head.

  “Dad, I’m kidd
ing.”

  Mr. King looked into his son’s eyes. He said, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry about . . . all of this.”

  Xander shrugged. “We’re in this together now. We can’t leave that house until we get Mom . . . and, Dad, I found her!”

  “You what? Is she—?”

  It was Xander’s turn to lower his head. “Well, sort of. David and I went into this Civil War world . . . I know we weren’t supposed to, but, Dad, I drew Bob on one of the tents. When we checked again, Mom had left a message. She was there!” He frowned. “We couldn’t get to her, but we know where she is, and she knows we’re looking for her.”

  His wife’s face filled Mr. King’s mind. He blinked and saw his son, looking so much like her. He knew he should be angry that Xander and David had broken their promise never to sneak through a portal again. But that was some-thing they could address another time. Right now all he could feel was relief . . . and gratitude. He extended his hand through the bars. Xander squeezed it tightly.

  “Xander,” he said. “You’re doing it, son.”

  “But . . . but, what now? You’re locked up in here. They’re trying to take the house. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Be strong and courageous,” Mr. King said. He smiled. He’d prayed his children would be exactly that since they were small. “As you have been.”

  Xander nodded. He looked toward the office door. He said, “So, what . . . hold down the fort till you get home?”

  “You got it.” He gave Xander’s hand a firm clasp, then let go. He said, “You better leave, before the guy out there comes to check on me. Give your brother and sister a hug for me, okay?”

  Xander stepped to the fire door.

  “Son?”

  Halfway through the door, Xander looked back.

  “Ti amo.”

  It was something they said, picked up from the owners of the restaurant where he had proposed to the future Mrs. King. It meant I love you in Italian.

  “Ti amo, Dad,” Xander said, and disappeared.

  CHAPTER

  eight

  TUESDAY, 9.37 P.M

  David heard the knock. He looked through the laundry room to the back door, in the center of which was a decoratively cut window. He didn’t see anyone standing there, only shadows from the trees. He wondered if he’d imagined the noise—wanting Xander back so much—or if it had come from somewhere else in the house. He pulled back in.