The Book of the King (17 page)

Petrov inserted his key, but Karl pushed past him and rushed in.

“Owen?” Mr. Reeder called.

Karl hissed, “The book, Petrov. Where?”

Petrov moved to the fireplace and pulled out the secret compartment. “I put here!” he said, gasping. “Last night while Owen sleep.”

Karl grabbed Petrov by the shirt. “Then where is it?”

“I don't know. Backpack gone. Shoes too. Everything.”

Mr. Reeder shook his head and scanned the place. When his back was turned, Karl started a fire on the floor. “He won't be sleeping here tonight. Nobody will.”

Owen slouched in a booth in the rear of a restaurant, his back to the door. He slathered a bagel with enough butter and jelly to keep his stomach full for the rest of the day.

“You can't stay here forever,” the waitress said, a hand on her hip. “I gotta keep turning this table to make money.”

“Maybe I'll try some coffee,” Owen said. He had always loved the smell but could never stomach the taste.

The waitress poured a cup and stared at him, nudging the bill closer.

“I won't be much longer,” Owen said, checking his watch.

He wanted to open the book right there, but what if someone recognized him and he had to run?

A round-faced man with a ketchup-stained tie tapped Owen's table. The man's jowls jiggled when he knelt next to Owen. “Florence says you've been here awhile,” the man whispered. “Don't you have something to do, somewhere to go?”

“All right, I'm going.”

Owen retreated to the public library, descending to the basement and locking himself in a windowless reading room. It was not as comfortable as the bookstore or his bedroom, but safety was all he cared about now.

He placed the book on the table and ran his hands across the leather surface, shuddering. He opened to a random page, and his eyes lit on a passage.

If you listen to my words and are careful to follow them, you will find life. When those who seek your life are close, when the evil one wants to devour you, cling to my words and you will be delivered.

Owen couldn't believe that no matter where he turned in the book, it seemed to speak directly to him.

Two worlds exist as well as the invisible. Courage is needed if the two are to become one. To breach the portal and begin the union, the Mucker leads as the Wormling reads. Intake for both must be continuous to avoid suffocation and death. The one who attempts great things shall be rewarded.

As Owen read, Mucker wriggled from between the pages, squirming into the light. Owen reached to hold him. Mucker stretched and yawned, as if he'd been asleep for a hundred years. Owen found it strange that he could be so warmed by this creature, and he had to wonder if his father was right—maybe he was demented and had invented all this in his damaged brain.

Overwhelmed, Owen read until he was tired, then lay on the floor, curled into a ball, and slept.

Clara Secrest stood outside the theater in jeans and a jacket, scanning the street. She had called Owen, but a mean-sounding man demanded to know who she was and said Owen wasn't home.

A movie poster caught her eye. It showed a strong man with long hair, face turned toward the sun, shirt torn from battle, and by his side a beautiful young woman, scarred by something deeper than war.

As Clara studied this, a pudgy young man smacking gum and smelling of popcorn handed her a piece of paper. “Some guy told me to give this to you.”

It was a note with a bill in it large enough to cover her ticket.

Clara,

Choose your movie and I'll meet you inside.

Owen

* * *

Owen found Clara in the “handsome man” movie and carefully moved down the row. When he sat, he handed her a carnation and a book he had found for her.

She tucked the book in her purse and sniffed the carnation. “Your limp is gone,” she whispered.

He merely nodded. He was so weary and yet so glad to be with her. “Thanks for thinking of this.”

“I'm glad it worked out. I called and your father—I guess it was your father—said you were out.”

“Stayed at a friend's house last night.” Owen looked closely at Clara, hoping he could trust her. “I'm going through a big change.”

“Change?”

“I guess you could call it a new direction. I've found something—”

Clara held up a hand. “Tell me you're not one of those religious crazies who go door-to-door and beat you over the head with their truth.”

Owen smiled and shook his head.

“Or the ones who think you're evil and burn down your house. You see what happened at the B and B yesterday?”

“Yeah, it was awful.”

“So you're changing,” she said. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

* * *

In the next theater, four boys scanned the seats. “She's not here,” one said.

“Maybe she chickened out,” another said. “Wouldn't blame her. Who'd want to meet that loser?”

“Shh,” someone hissed.

“Come on,” Gordan said. “There's one more theater.”

Owen spoke as if his words were taffy he was pulling from his teeth. “I feel as if . . . I've discovered my destiny . . . or part of it. . . . I mean, you know. . . .” He glanced into Clara's eyes, wondering why he felt so free to be open with her when he hardly knew her. He was enamored with her, of course, but did that mean he could trust her with things so personal? “It's as if I'm beginning to see how my life fits into the whole picture.”

“And what picture is that?”

Owen scooted forward and faced her. “I've been reading a book.”

“No kidding.”

He smiled. “Nothing new there, I know. But this one is different. It's like it was written just for me. It teaches that everyone has a purpose, something we were made to do, and whatever task or duty we're given is only another piece of the puzzle.”

Clara seemed to study him. “Puzzle,” she said, as if testing the word. “And no one else in the world can do what you're supposed to do?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe. But it makes me think that if everyone finds their purpose in life, then everything will come together and fit perfectly.”

“And if we don't?”

Owen frowned. “Then, like now, people just do whatever makes them feel good. There's no real happiness or joy. We simply exist.”

Clara got a far-off look. “Your theory presumes someone is arranging the puzzle.”

Owen nodded. “And you don't think that could be?”

She sighed and shrugged. “It's just that life doesn't make much sense. Maybe I should read that book of yours.”

“I'd love to show it to you someday. But I'm on my way somewhere.”

“A trip? Where?”

He sat back and closed his eyes. “I'm not really sure. It's just something I know I have to do. The world seems a lot bigger to me now that I'm away from home.”

“You're talking in riddles, Owen. What do you mean, away from home?”

“Clara, things are going on that I can't explain. But I know what I'm doing is right.”

The room darkened and trailers for future movies began. This was one of his favorite parts. Owen had only been to movies alone, but here he sat, next to a beautiful girl.

Latecomers caused a shaft of light to hit the screen, and shadows moved across it.

Clara leaned close and whispered, “Owen, I need to tell you something. Something I need to confess.”

“Confess? What—?”

“Just listen. We don't have much time. I was the one who changed your story, the one about Gordan. I was the reason he was so mad at you.”

“You?”

“I hate him, Owen. I can't stand him or the creeps he surrounds himself with. Your editor had already approved and finalized it. When she left, I pulled up your story and changed a few things.”

Owen stared at her.

“Listen, when you confronted Jen, she figured out that I was the one and told Gordan. He threatened to hurt me—or you—if I didn't agree to spy on you at the bookstore and tell them where you'd be tonight—”

So it wasn't Karl. . . .

“There!” someone yelled.

Clara grabbed Owen's arm and pulled him toward the end of the row.

“That way!” Gordan shouted in the darkness.

If the others in that theater had known what was at stake and how even their lives would be affected by the fight that was about to begin, they would have been more interested in what happened to our hero than what was on the screen.

As for Owen, he was too shocked by Clara's confession to think clearly. That she had been the one to alter his story was one thing, but that she had set him up was almost too much to bear.

“I'm sorry, Owen,” she said, gasping as they burst out the back door. “He threatened me and I was scared.”

“So you just gave me up?”

“I'm sorry, Owen!”

They ran for the stairs, but three wrestlers waited at the bottom.

“Got them, Gordan!” one yelled.

Owen and Clara were surrounded, and Gordan pushed his way through the gauntlet, obviously seething.

“Gordan, please,” Clara said. “You know the story was my fault.”

“It's a little late for that,” Owen said, glaring at her. “You told me you'd always wanted to date a freshman.”

The other guys laughed, but strangely they held back. They seemed wary, even afraid.

Owen realized that whatever had happened in the hallway, these guys were afraid of him, worried it might happen again. He decided to take the offensive. “Nice cast, Gordan. Pretty. You want another the same color?”

Owen moved quickly toward Gordan, and the bully stepped back. When the others did the same, Owen felt power surge through him. “Join your friends,” he spat at Clara, winking at the same time. “You've delivered your prize to them.” He yanked her toward them.

The boys parted for her.

“Go!” Owen yelled, and Clara ran until she disappeared around the corner. Owen had allowed Clara to escape and isolated himself against the enemy.

Gordan flushed, as if realizing he had been duped. “What have you got under your jacket, pip-squeak?”

“Maybe what broke your wrist yesterday. Or what knocked the rest of your crew to the floor. Should I do it again?”

Gordan pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. “When I get done with you, Reeder, not a kid in school will recognize you.”

“Facial surgery time,” someone said.

“This is your idea of a fair fight?” Owen said. “I'm unarmed and alone.”

Owen tested the strap on his backpack as Gordan stepped forward. Owen spun and charged up the stairs that overlooked an alley. It was dark, but a flickering light below illuminated a Dumpster filled with black trash bags.

Owen had two choices—neither good. He could stand his ground and face Gordan and his friends, or he could barrel down the stairs, hoping to blast through them.

One more option came to him. He could overcome his abject fear of heights and plunge into the darkness. He held the railing with one hand and protected the book with the other, and as the maniacs charged him, Owen leaped for the center of the trash bin.