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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "An Unexpected Rescue"  You should talk to Carson first, you decide. You should tell him what happened to you this afternoon, and what you've been thinking. You can both go find Black and Javits. Or Dane. That would be safest. * * * * * Carson's face is pale and his eyes are bright as you sit down next to him in the library. "Weird stuff's always happening to you lately," he grunts when you tell him an odd thing happened this morning. "What is it this time?" He listens as you tell about your encounter with Kirkham and try to explain the more benign turn your suspicions have taken. "What if they're just replacing people like Black and Javits and Patterson," you suggest, "and using them to put down the Kirkhams and Pozniaks and— Well, it's not like we know how to stop them anyway. And it would be like they're doing something good. Wouldn't it?" You spread your hands palm down on the table and take a deep breath. "I was thinking about going to them, or one of them, and— Asking them what they're doing." Carson's eyes freeze. Slowly, he hunches his shoulders and puts his head close to yours. "You haven't ... done that already, have you?" "No. I wanted to talk to you first. See if you wanted to go with me." Still, he doesn't blink, and now a slightly feverish light comes into his eyes. "What would you do if I said no?" Plainly, he hates this idea. "Well, I'd like to know why you won't come. Give me your reasons." "Because it's a stu—" His jaw clenches. "We don't want them knowing that we know." "Which would be worse? Walking around being paranoid? Or understanding what's going on?" "And how long do you think we'd be walking around if they knew that we knew what was going on?" "I told you, I'm not sure that they're really ... bad guys. It would be easy for them to just try acting like Javits and them. It's the easiest way to stay in character, to keep people from suspecting that something weird was up." "Or maybe—" Carson's eyes, which had been very narrow, now widen so that you can see their whites all around the edges. "Or maybe—" He begins to rock back and forth. "And what happens if I go with you?" "We both find out what's going on?" Carson looks like he's trying to tuck himself up into a little ball. His face is chalky white, and there is overwhelming terror in his eyes. Then he smiles, and it's like a rictus. "Okay, let's go see them." Neither of you moves for a moment, for you too are suddenly seized by doubts. But since you've suggested it, and argued for it, you feel like you have to follow through. Slowly you rise, pushing your chair back. And, stiffly, Carson follows. * * * * * You watch post-class basketball practice from the bleachers without talking to each other. After a seeming eternity it ends, with the other players exiting the gym, and with Black, Javits, and Patterson mounting the steps up to their private room, where they disappear around a corner. Neither you nor Carson move for several minutes. "You wanna go listen in first?" You jerk your chin at the changing room. "No point in that," he says. "Let's just do it." You've never been up those stairs, at the top of which you find a rough door painted white. Carson raps sharply at it. He has to rap at it again before Gordon Black opens it. He's enormous, a full head taller than you, with broad shoulders and a massive chest and bulging arms. But his expression, which is usually hostile and daunting, now just registers surprise. "Ioeger," he says slowly. And then, to your bemusement, for you doubt that he knows you: "Prescott. Can I help you guys?" Yeah, who are you, and what have you done with the real Gordon Black? "Um," you stammer. "Can we talk?" "What about?" he asks as Javits appears next to him, also looking quizzical. "Um, we know—" Carson touches your arm. "Let them do the talking, Will," he says. "I want to see what they have to say. Or do." Gordon blinks, and he and Seth exchange a glance. "Hey, Steve-o," Gordon calls over his shoulder without taking his eyes off you. "You got anything you want to say to Carson Ioeger or Will Prescott?" Behind him—though well-hidden by Gordon's massive frame—Patterson appears. His expression, too, is a blank. "Guys," he says. "Somethin' up?" No one says anything. The air seems to prickle on your face. Finally, Carson speaks again. "Will just wanted to say thanks for that good turn you did for him today. It was really cool of you." Gordon grunts; Seth shrugs; Patterson stares. Carson touches your arm again. "Come on, Will. I told you it would be embarrassing." You jerk, and look rapidly between Carson and Gordon, but Ioeger is insistent, and you let him pull you down the stairs. "The fuck, man—" you gasp at the bottom of the steps when Carson breaks into a run, pulling you along. You explode out the side door, and don't stop running until you've reached the portables, where he slumps to the ground, trembling hard. "I thought we were going to—" He looks up, and his face combines so many expressions that you can't sort them out. Probably he can't either. "Is it all okay?" he gasps. "You didn't take me up there to—" He shudders hard. You crouch down next to him. "Ioeger, don't lose your shit." You put a hand out, but he flinches. "I know it's freaky that they didn't haul us out and drop-kick us over the goal posts. But that's kind of the point, right? That they're actually being decent—" "That's bullshit!" Carson screams, and shoves you violently away. His face turns a bright crimson, and a froth forms on his quivering lips. "It's bullshit, Prescott, bullshit!" "Ioeger! What the—!" "You're not the only one who had something freaky happen to him today! And if you'd had it happen to you—!" He clutches his head, and his face twists up. "Carson, what's wrong? What happened?" Tears stream out of his eyes. "They got James," he says, and his voice cracks. "Those fuckers. They got James! My best friend is now one of them!" * * * * * It's a confusing story he stammers out, and you have to argue with him over some of the finer points that baffle you, but the gist is this: He sent James in this morning to listen at the duct during first period; when James returned at the beginning of second, he claimed to have heard nothing—nothing at all, not even the usual gossip—but had gotten caught and roughed up in the locker room. But when Carson went to look at the duct at the start of third period, he found it soldered shut. "There's no way they could have found it, and realized what it was, and sealed it up in just an hour," he insists. "They replaced him. Yesterday, or the day before, or last night— It doesn't matter when. They replaced him, and the doppelganger told them about the ducts." "But how would a fake know?" you insist. "They can copy the stuff inside you, too," Carson says in horror-stricken tones. "That has to be it. Because James was acting just like himself, talking to me about stuff that only we know about—" "But doesn't that prove it wasn't a fake?" you argue, for you don't want to believe that the disguises could be that perfect. "I didn't confirm it until just now, up there," he says with a shudder. "I didn't want to believe it either, I spent all day worrying about it. But up there—" He jerks his chin toward the gym. "James said that Black and Javits were the ones that caught him. They know Lamont and me are friends. If the doppelgangers really did rough up James, they would have roughed up me too, just now, for consistency's sake." "But why replace him? What—?" "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Prescott." He looks at you. "We're not the only ones who know how to do that." "Christ!" You rear back. "You don't think they—" "I still trust you, Prescott. Right now, and as long as I've got my sights on you. You showed that just now." "What do you mean?" That feverish gleam comes back into his eye. "You wanted me to go up there," he says. "You came to me with a half-assed story about how we should go up there. Maybe you wanted to lure me into a trap?" "Jesus, Carson!" you gasp. "Nothing happened, did it? I was right there, and no one grabbed me. Either you and them are playing a very subtle game—" "I'm not one of them, Carson!" A look of deep pain crosses his face. "Yeah, but I had to find out for sure, didn't I?" he says. "I had to test you, so I went up there with you and gave you and them every chance to— And I just about shat myself, but—" He laughs: a ragged sound. "I got guts, don't I?" he gasps. "I always hoped I did. Tell me I've got guts, Prescott." His eyes twist up. "Tell me I've got more guts than you ever credited me for." "You've got more guts than I do, Carson," you tell him quietly. * * * * * You separate, eventually, after spending the rest of the afternoon together, and eating a burger together; and there is a palpable, lingering reluctance to part. For if what Carson has suspected is true, then an undetectable imposture could fall on either of you, at any time. You have the terrible feeling that tomorrow morning Carson will not trust you any more, and the fear is not alleviated by your foreboding sense that you will not be able to trust him. Fantasies crowd in at home. The only slightly happy one is provoked by Carson's desperate boast that he had shown "guts" by testing you. Would you be able to test Caleb? Next: "A Trip Past the Supermarket" |
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