Raising Dragons (15 page)

Theories bounced around town, sounding like plots from bad detective novels. One had Dr. Whittier as a foreign spy who had used a flying robot to snoop on kids, and when Billy stole it to take a joy ride, Whittier burned down his house to scare him into giving it back. Another had Billy as a genius kid who had built a new kind of flying machine, and Dr. Whittier as a government agent who was trying to steal the secrets for the military.

But nobody mentioned Bonnie. And it seemed that nobody cared about her part in the story. Walter knew she had gone with the Bannisters, but he didn’t mention that to the police. They didn’t ask. Besides, with Billy acting so secretive, Walter decided not to volunteer any more information than he had to. Billy was his friend, and they trusted each other. Anyway, Bonnie’s foster parents would report her as missing if they didn’t know where she was, wouldn’t they?

“Walter? Is that you?”

Walter spun around to find the owner of the familiar British accent. “Hi, Mr. Hamilton.” He smiled and pointed at his booth. “Are you ready to take the plunge?”

Mr. Hamilton shook his head, and his creased brow made Walter drop his tease.

“Walter, I regret that I shall not be able to participate tonight.”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Hamilton? Are you sick?”

“No, Walter.” Mr. Hamilton looked at Walter’s booth and sighed. “I know how much this activity means to you and your fellow scouts, but I feel I must ask you to come with me on an urgent matter.”

Walter tossed the softball back to its basket and paid close attention to his teacher. “Is it something about Billy? Do you have news?”

Mr. Hamilton put his arm around Walter and began walking him toward the entrance of the park. He kept his tone low. “Yes, I have news, a great deal of news, in fact.” He waited to speak again until they found a secluded area, away from the booths and still a hundred feet or so from the entrance. He stopped Walter and looked at him gravely, his deeply set eyes shaded in the dimming light. “Can you come with me to the school?”

Walter hesitated, sobered by Mr. Hamilton’s frown. “Uh, I guess so. What for?”

“I think the police are on the wrong trail, and word has it that you know the Bannister family better than anyone else. I need you to help me investigate.”

“And it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No. There’s more. I heard on the news that a plane was reported in trouble over the mountains, the same kind that Billy’s father owns. The police believe it went down perhaps ten or twenty kilometers east of Elkins. A sheep farmer in a place called Sully heard the laboring motor and saw a smoke trail.”

Walter suddenly felt sick to his stomach and light-headed. Mr. Hamilton grabbed him by the shoulders and held him up for a few seconds, just enough to keep him from falling. Hot blood surged back into Walter’s face, and he pulled away, waving his arms excitedly. “What can we do? Can we go and help them search the mountains?”

“Yes, but not yet.” Mr. Hamilton pointed to the cell phone on his belt. “I’m waiting for a call from someone who will give us a more precise location. We can drive there and join the volunteer search team.” He glanced around the park. “Are your parents here? Can you ask their permission to go?”

“They’re coming later. They’re probably still at home.”

Mr. Hamilton extended his hand, gesturing toward the park exit. “Then please come with me and phone them from the school. I must leave the cell line open for the call I’m expecting. I never bothered to purchase that call-waiting feature.”

Walter hesitated, but only for a moment. He had already set up the booth, and the other volunteers could work it without him. Billy needed his help.

Bonnie opened her eyes and tried to see past a dark, wrinkled ocean, a wet brown pile of stale-smelling leaves. She felt dizzy, confused.

While she lay prostrate, she mentally took inventory, asking each part of her body what was going on. Her lips held a damp leaf and she spat it out, leaving an earthy taste on her tongue. Her arms spread out across the soft, wet mat. Apparently she had tried to stop her fall but failed. Any pain? Yes. Her left wing ached, her right knee complained of a stabbing throb, and both of her hands reported a burning sensation. Not too bad.

Bonnie raised her head, lifting it out of the pile of leaves. She squinted and turned in every direction, gazing in a dreamlike trance. Now she could see the forest and the mountain downslope that served as her bed. The skies had darkened. Thick clouds obscured the setting sun.

Something in her brain prodded her.
Get up! Get going!
But why? She turned her eyes upward, trying to roll back the events of the day, but she was interrupted by the voice in her head.
Run! Fly!
Suddenly the sound of rustling leaves shook her out of her trance. The slayer!

Billy tramped hurriedly through the leaves, making his way down a relatively easy slope. His mother was probably right; the highway shouldn’t be too far away, but it had seemed like a skinny gray ribbon when he saw it from the sky. Just before he left his mother, using the notepad and pencil he kept in his pant leg pocket, he had drawn a quick map of what he had seen while drifting down. All he could do now was try to head in the right direction and hope to hear the sound of cars or see the flicker of distant headlights when darkness fell.

Everything looked so different at ground level, but he knew most highways passed through the mountains at the lowest points, so a steady downward trek had to be the logical way to go. Although he found a hiker’s trail, he knew it wasn’t wise to follow a path that probably wound through the mountains to reach vistas for sightseers. Down was the smart direction. He had to ascend a hump from time to time, but he was always able to find a declining slope again.

He had to concentrate. The torture in his mind was almost too much to bear. Did he have a father anymore? Would he be able to find his mother again? What about Bonnie? What would the slayer do to her? Did they even land safely? Like a hundred hammers his doubts pounded his emotions, and through welling tears, he ran on and on.

Bonnie burst out of the leaves and flew, crying in pain as she lifted herself a few feet off the ground. It was no use. After flying only a dozen or so feet horizontally, she fell again.

The crackling sounds of footsteps drew closer. Bonnie searched every direction for a hiding place. There was only one chance. Up! With every ounce of heart she had left she flung herself into the air. She grabbed a low branch, flapped again to sling herself to the next branch, and then rested, breathlessly waiting in the crook of the tree. The skinny trunk barely shielded her body, and she tried to hold back her panting gasps. She feared her pounding heart might give her away as she listened to the sounds below. A voice! She heard a voice!

“That’s right,” the rough voice said. “In my office. The doctor sent the sword last week. It’s in the panel I told you about.”

Bonnie listened for a few seconds before noticing a limping man hurrying across the slope as fast as his gimpy leg would allow. It
was
the slayer! He was talking on a cell phone and pushing through the leaves while looking around in every direction.

“Wait! Hold on! There’s something here.”

The slayer stopped, and Bonnie tried to squeeze her body behind the trunk and peer out as secretly as she could, painfully folding in her wings as tightly as possible. He was standing right where she had first fallen to the ground.

“I think I found where she landed. It looks like she flew again . . .” At this point he looked down at the palm of his hand.

What is he looking at? A compass? Yes, it must be a compass.

“She’s heading southeast, or at least she was.” He limped over to another area a few yards away. “She landed again right over here.” The slayer stopped and searched the area while keeping the cell phone at his ear. “I don’t see any other disturbed leaves, so she must have flown away.” He looked up and scanned the intricate matrix of branches. Bonnie tried to follow his gaze, alternately watching him and the trees. A few were still decorated with rusty leaves, making a confusing patchwork in the dimming light, and the evergreen firs stood out as the living sentinels of the winter, but all the others stood naked and still in the stiff, cold wind.

“I think she’s around here somewhere. She was flying hurt; I could tell.” He kicked through the leaves and did a complete three-sixty scan before speaking again. “Get the sword and the book, and bring Randall and Jerry. . . . Yes, Jerry will be at the airport. . . . I don’t care how long it takes; just cruise highway thirty-three in the area I told you until you see me at the side of the road. I’ll get there eventually. My instincts tell me there’s an injured dragon around here somewhere, and I’m going to find her.”

Walter handed the office phone to Mr. Hamilton, who had stooped to read something on the desk. “My dad wants to talk to you.”

Mr. Hamilton took the phone and stood erect. “Charles Hamilton, here. . . . Yes, I am the same. . . . Carl Foley? You mean Crazy Carl Foley? . . . Of course I remember you. My days at Oxford weren’t that many years ago. You looked after my dear, sick wife while I gave Elizabeth away in marriage. I’ll never forget that. . . . Ah, I remember now; Walter was absent when we had our unit on heritage, but I should have guessed that this fine young man was your son.”

Mr. Hamilton listened for several seconds, rapidly nodding his head. “Yes, we’re doing some detective work. He is secure in my care. . . . Yes, we will be in touch.”

The teacher hung up the phone with a satisfied smile. “Your father has approved.”

“Good thing,” Walter said, “since I’m already here.”

“Yes. Quite.” Mr. Hamilton gestured with his hand. “Come over here. Since you’re Carl Foley’s son, I’m sure you will be very interested in seeing a fascinating book.”

Walter stepped cautiously through the principal’s office. He wanted to ask his teacher a bunch of questions, about how he knew his dad and about the “Crazy Carl Foley” nickname, but creeping through the dark, eerie room brought a tight lump to his throat. He decided to wait.

Since he had never been in much trouble himself, Walter rarely visited the principal’s office. The last time he was here, he was delivering papers for a teacher, but he had just zipped right in and out, not wanting to stick around and meet the man behind the strange rumors, the eccentric Dr. Whittier. Now, with the office dark, save for Mr. Hamilton’s flashlight, the eerie paintings and gothic displays seemed to stare down at him, looming much larger than reality.

Walter tiptoed forward. Mr. Hamilton had explained on the way to the school about all the books he had looked through in Dr. Whittier’s office. He also asked a lot of questions about Billy. But why? Why was his teacher so curious about Billy’s family, his grandparents and aunts and uncles, and what did all of this have to do with the plane crash? And why did the principal keep a personal library in a supply closet?

When Walter entered the closet he saw that Mr. Hamilton had already laid open a huge volume on a low table. The teacher’s finger ran down the page, and the light focused on the strange type. His voice trembled with excitement. “See this? It’s a genealogy. I mentored your father for his research project on family histories, so perhaps you’ve seen them before.”

“I’ve seen them,” Walter admitted, “but I don’t really understand them.”

“Look here.” Mr. Hamilton tapped the page. “Bannister is the family name of Reginald, a man whom Arthur adopted.”

“So? I’m sure there are lots of Bannisters.”

“Right you are, Walter. But I was searching to find any reason for Whittier’s actions. You see, I discovered that our principal is not Whittier. His name is Devin. His Whittier character is just a disguise for him.”

“A disguise? How did you find that out?”

“From his own books.” Mr. Hamilton turned around and pulled out another volume and laid it on top of the cabinet, throwing it open to a marked page.

“You would have to understand how genealogies work, but he has placed the name ‘Devin’ where his own name should go. Notice the handwriting and compare it to that of the original Sir Devin.”

“They’re the same!”

“Yes, it’s as if Whittier copied the script. I think he fancies himself a true knight, and he is very proud of his name. I knew beforehand that Sir Devin’s first son was also named Devin. So it’s no surprise that any descendant would have the same name, even after so long.”

“What’s so special about Devin?”

Mr. Hamilton looked away from the book and stared toward the dark ceiling. “Sir Devin was a knight, very close to King Arthur, but the two had a bit of a falling out.” He looked back at Walter. “Nobody knows why they argued. I think it’s because Devin was never allowed into the king’s inner circle; he never had a seat at the Round Table. But the legends say the strife was over Devin’s rabid interest in killing dragons. Supposedly, Arthur thought him mad and sent him away, but in either case, ever since that time Devin’s family has had a cruel interest in making life miserable for any of Arthur’s descendants. They made the Christian name into a surname as a threat to Arthur’s family.”

“So Billy’s descended from King Arthur, and Dr. Whittier—I mean, Devin, has it in for him and his father.”

“Precisely! And not only that, legend tells us that Arthur will return some day to rule once again. My own theory is that his return will be in spirit, in the form of one of his descendants, and not necessarily to rule. But rule or no, it is a return that Devin and his ilk would surely oppose. Perhaps William—”

A doorknob rattled, making both boy and teacher jump. Mr. Hamilton slapped the book closed, flicked off his flashlight, and pulled Walter deeper into the closet, sliding to the side of a bookshelf near the back. The office light flashed on and then the closet’s fluorescent bulbs flickered to life. A relatively short man entered, stocky but not obese. Walter decided to label him, “Rocky,” because his build reminded him of a boxer.

Walter watched while Rocky pulled books out one by one with small, nimble hands, reading each title, then pushing each book back in place. Finally, he pulled out an old metal box that had been placed vertically on the shelf as though it were another book. He then fished in his pocket and drew out a key. With quick, surgically precise hands, Rocky unlocked the box and opened its creaky lid. Then, moving his hands much more slowly, he withdrew a book from the box and smiled. It wasn’t an evil smile, but somehow it seemed less than happy, more relieved, maybe, than joyful.