A TOUCH OF STONE. THEN COLD, AND ARCHER WAS BACK. He leaped from the bed and screamed for Mrs. Pitsitakas. But there was no answer. He burst through her bedroom door and found the bed made . . . and the room empty. Archer turned and raced back down the hall. “Amy! Buster! Anyone here? Anyone home?”
There was no answer. “Snot rockets! Where is everyone?” He thumped down the stairs, half sliding down the last three. There was no sign in the den or living room. No one in the sitting room or the kitchen—a note. There was a note stuck with a magnet on the hood above the stove.
“Archer, went to a midnight movie. Sorry, you were asleep and Amy said it was important not to wake you. We’ll bring you back something. Mrs. P.”
The last time Archer felt this helpless was when he stood outside his mother’s door, listening to his father weeping. There had been nothing to do then. And it felt as if there was nothing to do now. He had no ride to the hospital, and it was fifteen miles away. If Rigby was already there . . .
Stop. Stop. Can’t think like that. But there’s no time. There’s no time to wait for a ride. There’s no time to get there. No time to do anything.
Anchors. Remember your anchors, Archer. Master Gabriel’s words rolled in. You must fight to preserve hope and truth.
He paced the kitchen and spoke his thoughts aloud, “How can I fight when I’m too far away?”
Things can get worse. They may get a lot worse, but that just means we fight harder.
Fight harder, he thought. How? The split second the idea arrived, Archer was off like a shot. He thundered up the stairs, dove onto the guest room bed, and snatched up his cell phone.
He used an app to find the hospital’s telephone number and dialed. The hospital’s automated line picked up and asked him which department he wanted. Cardiology? Pediatrics? Archer hammered the “0” on his keypad and prayed for an operator.
“Gatlinburg General Hospital. To whom may I direct your call?”
“Get me hospital security!”
“Hold please.”
“Hospital security,” a tired male voice answered.
“I need you to listen. My sister is in Room 17 on the pediatric wing. Kaylie Keaton is her name. She’s in a coma. She . . . she was injured by this guy . . . a neighborhood bully, his name is Rigby Thames.”
“Okay, I see her name in our registry. What’s the problem?”
“Thing is, Rigby said he’s coming up to the hospital now to finish her off.”
“He said that?”
“Yeah, he said it. Rigby’s dangerous. Please, you have to get up to my sister’s room. Rigby’s tall. He doesn’t look like a teenager. Brown hair, long sideburns, English accent. Please just go. I think he’s already there!”
Archer hung up. He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. Waiting while Kaylie’s life hung in the balance.
“No,” he said aloud. “I’m not just going to wait.” He shoved his phone in his jeans pocket and ran back downstairs and out into the front yard. It was a long shot, but he had to try. The Dream fabric had been weakening, day after day. Archer had developed some Dreamtreading powers in the Waking World. Why not this one?
Archer ran across the front porch, calling up all the will he could muster to fly. There was some lift but not nearly enough. He didn’t fall full speed, but he did fall, coming down on top of Mrs. Pitsitakas’ bushes. He huffed, cracking through the brittle winter branches and losing his footing in the snow. But he didn’t stop. He tried flight again. And a third time, but the best he could get was about ten feet of hover time. He wasn’t getting anywhere close to fifteen miles anytime soon.
“Rigby!” Archer’s scream echoed down the quiet suburban street. Archer kicked the snow once, twice, a third time. It wasn’t any good. At that very moment, Rigby could be pulling the plug.
Archer froze. The last bit of his breath snaked out of the corner of his mouth. The idea that presented itself turned Archer’s stomach, but he found himself absently checking to make sure his cell phone was still in his pocket.
The idea went against everything he believed in, everything he stood for, but he found himself sprinting down the street toward his neighborhood.
If Master Gabriel got wind of this idea, Archer knew he’d have no way to justify his actions. The idea itself was shameful, but Archer found himself turning the corner and using his will-enhanced speed to charge the last four blocks to Rigby’s house.
Archer balled his fist and banged hard on the front door. No answer. He heard the animals barking, chirping, cawing, yelping, and carrying on . . . as they always did when someone was at the door. Archer banged again. No one came. Rigby’s parents were always overseas. But the house wasn’t empty. Rigby’s Uncle Scoville was there. He was always there.
Archer summoned up his will, but instead of thunder-stomping the ground, he snapped his foot forward and kicked in the door.
Rigby had immobilized the hospital security guards easily enough. One got an open-hand strike to the throat. The other had drawn his gun. Rigby had turned the weapon into a snake. When the guard looked down at the thing wriggling between his fingers, Rigby knocked him unconscious with a will-conjured bat.
All that ruckus had gotten Rigby far too much attention. He used a variety of will-created barriers and a few illusions to get to the pediatric wing. From there, it was a matter of following the room signs.
At last, there it was: Room 17. He turned into the doorway and ran straight into a doctor. He grabbed the startled physician by the lab coat lapels and threw him bodily across the foyer into the nurses’ station. Then, his will surging, he called up a solid wall of granite to block the only way into the hospital room. “Now, Miss Kaylie,” Rigby said. “No one will disturb us.”
Archer strode quickly down the stairs to the basement. At the base of the stairs, on the left, stood the new security door Rigby had installed. “I’m not as smart as Kaylie,” he whispered. “So I’m just going to use a key.”
He summoned up a sledgehammer, pulled from his will to aid the strike, and struck the door on the side where the internal hinge mechanism was hidden.
Archer took a quick step backward. “What was that?” he asked aloud, his breathing swift, heart pounding. When Archer connected with the door, something had gone wrong with his vision. The door seemed to flex and bend. In fact, Archer’s entire field of vision had warped momentarily.
The animals in Rigby’s basement zoo went berserk. The noise was deafening. Archer turned back to the door and took another swing. This one hit so hard that Archer’s ears rang, and he saw a slightly larger shadow between the door and the jamb. Again and again and again he swung the sledge. There was a visible gap. The hinge was stressed near to breaking. It was no match for a thunder-kick.
The security door fell inward, crashing into a cabinet frame. It set off a buzzing, howling alarm, but Archer yanked out the wires. He turned, and there as still as death, lay Dr. Scoville. Archer stared at the body of the man he had known in the Dream as the Lurker. It had been his research that led to all of it: the Lucid Walkers, Dream Inc., Rigby’s obsessions—Dr. Scoville had begun it all.
But did he deserve to die?
Archer looked at the trail of wires leading from the machines. He followed their trail back to a central power junction. There was no plug to pull, but there was a circuit breaker. If he opened that little metal door and pulled the switch inside down, Dr. Scoville’s life support machines would stop running. The man would die.
I’m no judge, Archer thought. How can I be executioner?
Archer pulled out his cell phone, double-checked that the video chat was active, and made the fateful call. While it rang, Archer prayed Rigby wouldn’t answer. If he didn’t, Archer would have no leverage. There’d be no reason to—
At the fourth ring, Rigby’s face appeared on the tiny screen.
“Keaton?” Rigby’s voice sounded odd. Thin. Strained. His face looked odd. Sickly. “Keaton, is that you?”
“Don’t do it, Rigby!” Archer demanded to the little face on his phone screen. “Don’t hurt her. She’s just a little girl!”
“Who told you—never mind. Archer, I—I have to.”
“No, you don’t. You can just walk out of that hospital. I promise, we’ll leave you alone. You can have your Rift, and we’ll leave you alone.”
“I wish I could believe you, Keaton,” Rigby said. “I really do. But you’ve got your code. And you really can’t help yourself, can you? I’m sorry, Keaton, but Kaylie’s just too powerful. I can’t allow—”
“No! No, don’t! Rigby!”
“Relax, Keaton, I haven’t done anything yet. Look here; see for yourself.”
“Please,” Archer said quietly. “Let me see her.” He glanced back at Dr. Scoville. Rigby hadn’t noticed yet, hadn’t seen where Archer was. He ran his hand through his hair. “Rigby?”
Kaylie appeared on the tiny screen. She was there, tucked into the hospital bed. Her chest rose and fell because the machine breathed for her. She looked so small, so fragile. “Please, Rigby, for the love of God . . .”
“Really, Keaton?” Rigby’s face returned to the screen. “As if I’ve ever known real love . . . or God.”
“You said you did.”
“What?”
“You told me that’s why you needed the Rift to happen,” Archer said. “For your uncle. You said he was like a father to you. You said you were motivated by love.”
Rigby glanced away from the screen. “I . . . I am, I guess.” Rigby covered his face with his free hand. “Ah, no, how did I get here? How did it all get like this?”
“You can change direction, Rigby,” Archer said. “You can turn. You don’t have to do this.”
Through tears, Rigby faced his phone’s camera again. “But . . . I . . . do. Can’t you see, Keaton? It’s the only way.”
“You act like it’s some kind of fate, like an equation that has to have a certain answer. There are other answers.”
“I don’t think so,” Rigby said, and Archer could tell he was turning toward the hospital bed again. “I’m sorry for all of this, but I ’ave to see it through.”
“Don’t you touch those machines, Rigby!” Archer yelled. “Don’t touch them or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Rigby asked. “Kill me? Do you ’ave any idea how powerful all this will make me. I’ll—”
“I’m here with your Uncle Scoville, Rigby.”
Fear washed smug from Rigby’s face. “You-you’re what?”
“I’m in your basement, at your house. I’m a foot away from the circuit breaker that would end your uncle’s life.”
“You’re bluffing.”
Archer turned the camera of his smart phone. “See?”
“You . . . you can’t, Keaton,” Rigby said. “You’re a Dreamtreader. You can’t.”
“This is where you’ve—” Archer blinked. The room seemed to bend inward again. It warped and then sprang back. Archer shook his head. “This is where you’ve pushed me, Rigby.”
“No, no. Keaton, you don’t understand,” Rigby said. “You can’t blame me. This is on you. You don’t want to do that. You’re not a murderer.”
“It’s simple,” Archer said, trying to sound convincing. “You get away from my sister, right now. Or I’ll shut down your uncle’s life support.”
“You’re not that type, Keaton,” Rigby said. “You never were, but I am.” The call disconnected. Rigby’s face, the little corners of the hospital room, the last glimpse of Kaylie . . . all were gone.
“Rigby!” Archer screamed. In a blinding rage, Archer spun toward the circuit breaker. He snapped open the small metal door and put his finger on the breaker switch. His fingers felt heavy.
But his heart felt heavier.
There’s my big boy, Archer’s mom said from memory. Perfect timing, too, because I’m so thirsty. Can I feel that bucket? Oh my goodness, that’s so heavy! How did you bring it all the way up the hill from the well? You’re strong for your age, son. I bet you’ll do great things one day.
Tears came, hot and messy, streaming down from Archer’s eyes and blurring his vision. But his fingers did not move.
“Kaylie, I’m sorry,” he whispered. But his fingers did not move.
No. It was a single brief thought, a single word. But it was potent. Archer exhaled deeply and pulled his hand away from the circuit breaker.
“It’s really quite simple, my boy,” came a gritty voice from behind. “Just a little flick of the fingers, really. Like . . . so.” An arm moved in a blur. Just a flick of the wrist, and the circuit breaker clicked off. The life support machines died.
Dr. Scoville did not.