The Paladin Prophecy

DAVE

As Dr. Robbins had promised, Will’s reservation to Denver was in the system at the ticket counter. She’d also booked a connecting flight to Chicago, on another airline, that left Denver about midnight. Will showed the agent his passport. She handed over his boarding passes without any questions.

He stopped at a gift shop before security and bought a cheap black carry-on, a gray sweatshirt, and a blank baseball cap. In the men’s room, he changed into the sweatshirt, took everything out of his duffel, and packed it into the new bag. He had just enough room left to stuff the duffel inside before zipping the new bag shut. He pulled on the cap, checked himself in the mirror, and walked back out.

The terminal was nearly deserted; he was booked on one of the last flights out. Will showed his pass and ID to a weary female TSA guard at the security entrance. She glanced at him, stamped his pass, and waved him between a set of ropes that led around a corner. Will had only been on a plane twice and not since before 9/11, when he was a little kid. Whenever his family moved, they always traveled by car.

A stack of plastic trays waited beside a long stainless-steel table that fed a conveyor belt through the X-ray machine. The businessman ahead of him slipped off his loafers, watch, and belt, dumped them in a tray, and laid his coat on top. He set his carry-on, cell phone, and laptop in a second tray and nudged them onto the conveyor. The tag on his carry-on read JONATHAN LEVIN.

Will stepped to the table and copied the man’s moves. Levin waited behind a white line in front of a metal detector. He handed his pass to the TSA guard manning that post, a scrawny redneck straight out of a country-western song, with squinty eyes and tattooed ropy forearms. He looked from the pass to the man a few times, taking his job way too seriously, then handed back the pass and waved Levin through.

Will looked behind him. Two men in black caps and jackets were walking toward security, looking around. They hadn’t spotted him yet.

Will tugged down his cap and stepped to the white line.

Maybe it’s a random check and they don’t know I’m here. Maybe they can’t follow me once I get through security.

As his trays entered the X-ray machine, he remembered he’d left his Swiss Army knife and the metallic bird in his bag. Both would start a conversation he couldn’t afford to have. He looked at the young female attendant watching the X-ray monitor.

Trust your training.

When Will was little, younger than five, his parents discovered that he had an unusual and startling ability—he could “push pictures” at people from his mind straight into theirs. His mom first realized it when images began popping into her mind—a toy, a drink, a cookie. Ultimately, she realized Will was trying to tell her what he wanted.

Since then, his parents had worked with him to develop the skill, as a game at first, then more seriously. They had also taught him never to use his power on anyone, because it was ethically wrong and because it violated Rule #3: DON’T DRAW ATTENTION TO YOURSELF.

Unless he was in extreme danger. Like right now.

Will felt like his heart was going to beat right out of his chest as he stared hard at the girl behind the monitor. He’d never tried to push an image into anyone’s head other than his parents’. The girl stopped the belt with Will’s bags in the heart of the machine and leaned in for a closer look.

A toothbrush. An alarm clock.

Will concentrated, silent and trembling, and pushed those pictures at her. He felt them land. Toothbrush and alarm clock replaced knife and bird.

A moment later, the attendant leaned back and advanced the belt. Will’s trays appeared at the far end. Relieved, he turned and came face to face with the redneck TSA guard, who was eyeing him coldly. He asked for Will’s pass. Will gave it to him. The man examined it, then looked at him sharply. The hairs on Will’s neck bristled.

The guard walked to the other side of the detector and waved Will forward. He stepped through without setting off any alarms. The guard pointed him to the right, toward an area screened and divided by portable partitions.

“Wait over there,” said the guard.

Will had just been kicked up to another level of scrutiny. Between the time that he had checked in and now, the people chasing him must have gotten his name onto a watch list. The guard held Will’s boarding pass as if it were a live grenade and walked into the maze of partitions. He showed it to a heavyset African American woman in a blue blazer. She glanced briefly at Will, her sharp eyes veiled with practiced indifference, then nodded the redneck toward a nearby computer.

He’s about to confirm that my name is on a watch list.

Will looked back and saw the men in black caps outside security. Looking at passengers. He turned away. The guard leaned over the computer, his face turned ghostly white by the flickering screen.

Will focused his eyes on a single spot in the middle of the guard’s scraggly unibrow. Will’s pulse slowed. He “saw” his target. Felt a wave of heat shoot up his spine, flow around his throat, and rush up to create the image he wanted to push:

A picture of the computer screen with Will West erased.

It landed. The guard scrunched his eyes and blinked a few times. Will pushed another image at him, adding a name where his had been: Jonathan Levin.

The guard leaned in, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Then, for the first time ever, Will tried to push words: That’s right. The guy who just cleared the checkpoint.

The redneck’s head jerked above the partitions, his neck swiveling like a prairie dog sentry. His eyes shot past Will to the businessman, dragging his carry-on toward the gates. The guard spoke to his supervisor. She lifted a walkie-talkie and issued orders. The redneck and other guards started after the businessman. Will held out his hand. The redneck gave back Will’s boarding pass as he hurried past. Behind Will, police officers stepped in to close off the line to the metal detector.

Will put on his shoes and slipped his laptop into the bag. He glanced back. The Black Caps were gone. Maybe they hadn’t even seen him. Will picked up his bag and walked away. Twenty steps later, he passed the petrified businessman being manhandled back to the checkpoint by the TSA posse, the side-burned redneck leading the way.

Will rounded a corner. Exhaustion buckled his knees. His vision faded to spots and dots. The room spun like he was about to black out. He stumbled into the men’s room, dropped his bag, and grabbed a sink, holding on with both hands. He splashed water on his face and neck, which were hot to the touch.

So the mind pictures still work—stronger than ever—but using them kicks my ass. It took him five minutes to recover. Unsteady on his feet, he walked back into the terminal and bought two sandwiches from a snack stand. His flight had already begun boarding; a line formed at the Jetway.

He stepped onto the plane and found his seat two-thirds of the way back: window, right side, looking over the wing. He unzipped his carry-on and took out his iPod and earbuds. He considered checking his iPhone for messages, then remembered Nando’s warning and thought better of it.

Boarding didn’t take long; the flight was less than half full. Olds mostly, business drones in dull suits, zombied out and preoccupied. Will leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to turn off the loop running through his head: Who are these men, and what do they want with me and my family?

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