The Keeper of Dawn (25 page)

“Rumor has it you’re a wanted man, Bellringer,” Max said,
extracting a cigar. “Lawson’s informed the faculty that—”

“I’m to be shot on sight?”

Max permitted himself to smile. “Let’s just say I’d get the
privilege of dragging you to the headmaster’s office a second time.” Max
started rummaging through his pockets, coming up empty-handed.

“Can’t take a piss without unzipping your fly,” Chris said,
holding up his lighter. “Let me guess—amateur night.”

“Hmmmf. Guess it is,” Max admitted, looking hungrily at
Chris’ lighter. “It’s been eight years.”

“Sorry to hear that. Let’s say, hypothetically speaking of
course, if I were to give you a light—”

“Relax, Bellringer. I’m not turning you in. Not tonight,
anyway. Tonight, I’m off duty.”

Chris flipped open the lid of his lighter. With the cigar
between his lips, Max leaned over the flame and puffed smoke.

“Nothing quite like it,” he said, leaning against the wall. He
took another drag and, with the look of someone experiencing a long-forgotten
pleasure, closed his eyes.

Chris squatted on his haunches, also lighting up. I couldn’t
have imagined a more unlikely scenario. Chris was having a smoke with the one
person who did nothing to conceal his aversion for him. It was as if a truce
had been called, and they sat warming their hands over the same fire.

“No toothpick tonight, Max?” I asked.

“Not tonight. Been saving this for a special occasion,” he
said, taking another drag, and then, with the cigar still clenched between his
teeth, let its tip droop in the fashion of one of his toothpicks. “Just now
finished. It’s official—Raker is operational.

“Wow. That’s great,” Roland said in a way that made it
obvious he could care less.

“Surprised you haven’t tried it out,” I said.

“Wish it were that easy,” Max replied. “You wouldn’t believe
the list of procedures they make you follow.” He waved his hand as if swatting
a fly. “Besides, I’m sure the boys from the Coast Guard will want to do the
honors. Just as well they stuck around. Wouldn’t want to travel on a night like
this.”

Max’s cigar dangled from the side of his mouth, and when he
inhaled, a small circle of light appeared between his dark lips, illuminating
one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow.

“Well … speak of the devil.”

Max turned at the sound of footsteps running through the
rain. A dark figure materialized from the courtyard, the light of the
passageway reflecting off a small, familiar emblem atop his head.

“All you have to do is mention the Coast Guard, and they
come a-runnin’,” Max said. But by the time he turned around, we had already vanished
into the storm.

We sped down the path toward the helipad. Though I never
looked back, I envisioned the shining replica of the lighthouse pursuing us
every step of the way. I barely felt the rain. When lightning flickered on the
horizon, I caught a flash glimpse of one of the rotors, and when the next flash
came, the helicopter stood before us.

“Get the chains along the sides,” Chris instructed.

Roland and I unhooked the chains while Chris climbed up and
untied ropes from the rotors. The sight of the enormous, bubble-shaped aircraft
sitting motionless in the rain made me wonder how it would ever lift off the
ground. Were we actually going through with this? All at once, a gravity
specific to the island weighed me down.

With only the occasional flicker of lightning to see by,
Chris fumbled with the keys for what felt like an eternity. Roland and I
crowded behind him, our arms full of wet chains. I kept looking over my shoulder,
expecting to see Mr. Noble at any second.

“Got it!” Chris slid the door open and we piled inside.

“We made it!” Roland said, slamming the door shut and
locking it. “We actually made it.”

Inside, the storm was reduced to a steady patter above our
heads. We slowly felt our way through the shadowy interior.

“Stay out of sight,” Chris said, climbing into the cockpit. “This
place will light up once I get things going.”

“There’s a tarp or something back here,” Roland said,
pulling at something beneath our feet.

“Good. Use it to cover up.”

Roland got behind Chris and I crouched behind the co-pilot’s
chair. The tarp, or whatever it was, was big enough for both of us, and after a
minute of adjusting, I was covered from the neck down. The tarp smelled like
mildew, and the rain hitting the roof made a hollow sound like water dripping
into a tin can. Chris had the instrument panel illuminated in green and red
lights.

“Looks like a Christmas tree,” Roland said.

“Quiet in the peanut gallery,” Chris replied, running his
finger over countless dials and switches. “Santa’s trying to operate his
sleigh. Ah, here we are. Lights, camera …
action
!”

At the flip of a switch, the aircraft’s exterior lights
turned on. Mr. Noble stood no more than ten feet away. Dressed in his usual
attire, he glared at Chris. His face, always so animated when telling stories,
was deadly serious. Chris looked up from the controls and waved. Mr. Noble’s
expression darkened, then he tried the door, but finding it locked, returned to
the front of the aircraft and proceeded to stare ruthlessly into the cockpit.

“Get out of my helicopter!” he bellowed.

Chris continued to study the instrument panel.

“Get out of there!” Mr. Noble shouted, pounding on the
cockpit window. “Playtime is over. Very clever with your girlfriends stealing
my keys. The joke is on me. Now out you go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Where are your friends?”

“They chickened out. I’m gonna give those pussies an earful
too.”

“Your fun is over. My pilot is on his way with his keys. So
you might as well get out of there.”

“This guy is clueless,” Chris said. “He underestimates the
seriousness of the situation.” Then, pointing his finger in the air with
self-importance, he stated: “But what really upsets me is that he doesn’t
respect me as a pilot. I’ve got a feeling this might change his attitude. Engine
numero uno!”

A loud, high-pitched whine sounded from above, which was
followed by the steady roar of an engine coming to life.

Mr. Noble’s face dropped. I watched his eyes go methodically
to each of the tie-down points, where chains should have secured the aircraft
to the ground, where ropes should have fastened the rotors. When a blank look
crossed the Coast Guardsman’s face, I suspected he was recalling the time he
had explained to Chris the Pelican’s controls in great detail.

“SHUT IT DOWN! SHUT IT DOWN! SHUT IT DOWN!” he screamed, his
frantic voice audible over the roar of the engine.

Mr. Noble beat his fists on the glass, causing me to shrink
back in the tarp. He yelled something I couldn’t understand, and then ran back
and gave the door another try, but the lock held.

“Engine number two!” Chris yelled.

There was another high-pitched whine as the second engine
started, and then Mr. Noble reappeared in front of the cockpit, his face inches
from the glass.

“YOU’LL NEVER GET OFF THE GROUND!”

Chris pointed toward the ceiling and joined his hands
together, flapping his fingers like they were wings.

Mr. Noble shook his head. “OVER THE OCEAN. AT NIGHT. IN A
STORM! YOU’RE COMMITTING SUICIDE!”

Chris responded by taking off his jacket and, in one clean
motion, pulling his shirt over his head.

“ROCK-AND-ROLL!” he screamed.

Mr. Noble stared in disbelief at the bare-chested
seventeen-year-old behind the controls of his helicopter.

From overhead came the sound of the rotors whirling to life.
Outside the aircraft, Mr. Noble refused to back away. He faced the
hurricane-speed winds head-on, his coat flapping violently. Finally his cap
blew off. There was a moment of indecisiveness in which he looked back and
forth between the helicopter and where his cap had disappeared, but finally he
turned and ran into the darkness.

What would Grandpa think, I asked myself, if he could witness
all the chaos that was occurring on his behalf?

Suddenly the helicopter jerked to one side, knocking me back
into the tarp. Chris’ bravado from a moment before had vanished. He was bent
over the controls, his left foot pressed to the floor. I closed my eyes and
prayed that we had not made a terrible mistake. I came very close to telling
Chris to shut everything down. It still wasn’t too late to turn back. But then
I thought of Grandpa, clutching his chest as his heart contracted. I watched as
he clawed his way across the floor, reaching out with a trembling hand for the
phone. I hadn’t been there for him. He had died alone. I couldn’t change what
had happened, but I could no longer afford to look the other way.

The vibrations in the floor increased when we lifted off the
ground. I pushed the tarp aside and struggled to my feet. My eyes never left
Chris, especially his hands clutching the controls, as if I could somehow
prevent him from making another mistake. When Chris pushed the control stick
between his legs forward, the nose of the helicopter dipped down, causing me to
tumble into the back of the co-pilot’s chair.

I couldn’t hear what he shouted back. He worked the controls
with both hands, and we flew over the field with increasing speed. The wind
came from all sides, rocking us like a boat on choppy water. Roland freed
himself from the tarp and climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. We were about forty
feet in the air, heading straight for the school. Lightning flashed without
thunder, and raindrops beaded on the cockpit window before the wind wiped them
away. Chris looked more confident now that we were airborne, and I got the
sense that lifting off had been the greatest challenge.

The school looked dignified from the air. Come Tuesday, I
thought, this will be how the television audience sees us. I could already hear
the derogatory rich-kid comments, no one imagining how out of control our lives
really were.

Chris leaned over and shouted in my ear, “Let’s give ‘em a
buzz cut!”

Grinning, Roland passed his hand over his once short-cropped
hair.

We flew over the wall, pulling up above the courtyard
fountain. Chris, smiling but serious, jerked the controls with his hands and
pushed pedals on the floor with both feet, rotating the helicopter a full
three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. The tattoo on his back glistened with sweat,
the moisture making his wings drip like they were melting.

It felt like being at the center of a tornado. The downdraft
pushed water out of the fountain and onto the sidewalk. The rainfall was
redirected horizontally, battering the courtyard windows. Shingles on the
rooftop tore loose; a gutter on Bowers Hall collapsed; a nearby trashcan
toppled over, its contents spilling out like angry hornets before scattering in
a cloud of debris. The grass was flattened, the trees of Oak Yard bent at such
severe angles I expected them to snap. The newly hung “Welcome to Wellington
Academy” banner broke free and flew out of sight like a long, white kite.

It was beautiful.

Chris lifted us out of the courtyard, stopping when we came
level with the lighthouse. We hovered there for a moment, with the school spread
out below and the rain coming at us from all sides. At first I wasn’t sure why
we had stopped, but then I looked over. Chris was exultant. I thought back to
that first day when his father had flown him to the island and realized that he
needed this flight as much as I did.

When Chris pushed forward, I felt my weight sink into my
feet. Within seconds the school vanished. For an instant the football field
appeared, and then we were traveling down the spine of the island. Every so
often the gravel road would flash across our path, a gray vein amidst the dark
trees as we bisected the switchbacks that scribbled back and forth beneath us. The
tops of the trees swayed in the wind, blurring together as we picked up more
speed.

Chris was steady at the controls. His maneuvering in the
courtyard had given him confidence, and he had the indescribable look of
someone performing a task they love. Roland sat beside him, staring out of the
cockpit as if viewing the climax of a suspenseful movie. I was crouched in the
narrow space between them, my hands gripping the back of their seats. Was this
really happening?

A burst of lightning—as bright as daylight—illuminated the
sky, providing a split-second glimpse of our surroundings. We were crossing the
last stretch of land; beyond was the ocean, terrible and immense, churning
beneath a low ceiling of turbulent clouds. Chris took us higher, obscuring the
view, but the image stayed with me. Memories of the rising tide and the
ice-cold grip of the ocean resurfaced. If we went too low out here …

The storm was stronger over the water. The clouds shrieked
at us, the rain hammered the windshield. The only assurance was that the Coast
Guard used this helicopter for search and rescue operations. The storm—no
matter how intense—couldn’t get to us. Flying over the island had felt like
traveling down a broad highway, but now we were on our own, freefalling across
the ocean. The helicopter deafened us and the storm took away our sight. All
that remained was a vital sense of movement.

Through it all, Chris remained calm. No sense of panic or
urgency came back from him. His eyes never left the instrument panel, which had
so many controls and gauges that nothing made sense; it was all part of some
equation I couldn’t begin to solve. I guessed that there was some dial that
told him how high we were, and that if nothing else, he would keep it above
zero. Though his face was relaxed, the muscles in his upper body were tense, as
if he had pushed all the stress into this area. Each adjustment of the controls
resulted in a complication of small muscles flexing in his arms and back. The
great rotor twirling above was an extension of his body, and it was this
precise movement of his arms and the resulting spasms and flutters of the dark
wings on his back that drove us through the storm.