Unlucky Charms

  DEDICATION

  For Dr. Marie Rex, who is a teacher today

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  And Now Back to the Newsroom

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Commercial Break

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  AND NOW BACK TO THE NEWSROOM

  CHAPTER 1

  Samantha Doe was going to miss her big red coat. It was by far the warmest thing she’d ever worn, and she’d worn it every day for more than three months, and you couldn’t help getting attached to something like that. On the inside it was furry, like a pet. It even had the word DOE on the pocket. Samantha loved her big pet coat. But she was going to have to give it back.

  She’d been in Antarctica for fifteen weeks—twice as long as she’d been told. She could swear near the end that Goodco was just grasping at excuses to keep her there. And then there was that business with her laptop.

  One of the Goodco people, one of the big men who didn’t seem to have any scientific credentials at all, had come to her dorm room and asked why she hadn’t been sending any personal emails to her children.

  Samantha had, in fact. She’d sent Scott and Polly each an email every day since the Saturday after Thanksgiving. A hundred letters. But she said, “Well … since it’s personal emails I’m not sending, I don’t see how it’s your—”

  The man brushed past her and grabbed her laptop off the bed.

  “Hey!” Samantha said. But she stepped back. She was suddenly afraid of this big man. He’d just come in from the cold night, wearing the same sort of coat Samantha wore, that everyone wore. Red on the outside, furry on the inside. On him it looked like an animal he’d turned inside out and was flaunting, like a warning. He scowled at the screen.

  “You haven’t sent an email to your kids since December first,” he said. “And they’ve never emailed you back?”

  Samantha wanted to fold up into herself. Scott and Polly wrote her all the time—what was this guy talking about?

  “Here—” the big man, this massive man, told her. “This. Where did you get this software?” He showed her the screen, and a file she’d never seen before. It was called 2003 TAXES, and it was nested inside three folders named for sugar-free candy recipes and a fourth titled PHOTOS OF MY UNATTRACTIVE AUNT. She’d never noticed any of these before, either. Her laptop had a lot of garbage on it.

  “Why … why does it matter?” Samantha asked the man, who was heaving, who could not possibly be getting larger, could he?

  “It matters … it matters because it’s counteracting the spyware we put on your computer. How did it get here?”

  Samantha didn’t know, though her mind turned back to a drawing Polly had sent, months ago, that took a suspiciously long time to download. Anyway, the big man dropped her laptop carelessly on the bed and thundered out before she could answer, or get indignant, or even ask what he’d meant by spyware.

  She stood awhile, aware of the shallow tide of her own breath. She wasn’t so sure about this Goodco anymore. She didn’t care how beloved their cereals were.

  Afterward she checked, and it was true: all the old emails to and from her kids had vanished off her computer, as if they’d deleted themselves. All of Scott’s curious messages, wanting to know every last thing about the strange phenomenon she was studying. Even Polly’s drawing of a cat with a unicorn’s horn, gone. She sat on her bed and thought for a long time.

  The next day she demanded to leave on the next plane out, and over the following weeks Goodco delivered one feeble excuse after another why she needed to stay. But then finally, when they gave their permission, an unscheduled flight made ready to leave right away—a woman at the Kiwi base had slipped in the shower, and Samantha could hitch a ride on her medical transport. She landed in New Zealand, and gave back her red coat, and caught a plane to Los Angeles, and then another to Philadelphia. Scott and Polly and their father, John, would be meeting her at the airport—or so they said in an email she could no longer find five minutes after she read it.

  She deplaned into the terminal, exited the secure area, and almost didn’t see the chauffeur holding a sign with her name on it. She wasn’t looking for her name, after all; she was looking for her family. But she approached the uniformed man with a little frown on her face.

  “I’m Samantha Doe,” she told him. “I wasn’t expecting a driver.”

  The chauffeur tucked the sign under his arm and fished something shiny out of his pocket.

  “I’ve been instructed to give you this,” he said, and handed her a small gold octagonal hoop.

  She turned it in her hand. “What is it? It … heh … it looks like a miniature particle collider.”

  “Put it on.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been instructed to tell you to put it on.”

  “Instructed by whom? My ex-husband?” she said as she slipped the thing onto her wrist. Then, wincing, she asked, “Was it always glowing?”

  And then she was gone.

  Thirty feet away, Scott gasped. He couldn’t help it. There was no flash of light, no puff of smoke. His mother was just there, and then she wasn’t. She wasn’t anywhere. She wasn’t anywhere in the whole universe.

  “GO GO GO GO!” shouted someone in the crowd, and then ten ordinary-looking men converged on the startled chauffeur and seized his arms—Freemen, laying in wait for Scott and his friends to show themselves. Members of the Good and Harmless Freemen of America, a secret society of creeps who did Goodco’s bidding. Scott’s heart started pounding against his chest like it wanted out—and why not? The last time he’d seen so many Freemen in one place, they’d tried to dissect his friends.

  “What the—” sputtered the chauffeur as the Freemen held him fast. “Lemme go! What happened to that lady?”

  The surrounding men, in their plain clothes and scarves, looked to an older Freeman in a black cowboy hat and duster, who stood apart and scanned the faces in the crowd. Then he turned to the driver.

  “Who hired you?” Scott heard him growl.

  “Some old guy,” said the chauffeur in a high voice. “Look, what’s this about?”

  “It’s the wizard’s work,” the man in black told the others. “Must be. Fan out, he might be close.”

  The man in black was both right and wrong—the wizard was close, but the wizard wasn’t a wizard.

  Scott started to move, but Merle laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Stay put,” the old man said.

  Scott’s wig felt itchy. His fake glasses felt fake. In his black wig and big black glasses, he felt like Clark Kent. A kind of bizarro universe Clark Kent who removes his glasses and for some reason his hair to reveal that he is actually a perfectly ordinary blond boy with a mild peanut allergy.

&nbs
p; Well, not so ordinary, really. He was part fairy, on his father’s side. Plus he had a leprechaun in his backpack.

  “Is he really Merlin?” another Freeman asked the man in black. “They say he turns people into animals.”

  “I wish,” huffed Mick, the leprechaun. Merle could only do a few cool things, and he was already doing most of them.

  “He’s the reason all the magic left our world,” another man told his fellow Freemen, glancing around, his voice the reedy voice of the True Believer. “Merlin. He’s why it’s all trapped in another dimension with the elves and fairies.”

  “Not true,” Merle muttered under his breath.

  “And now he’s trying to ruin the Fay’s Grand Plan to bring the worlds together. Him and his friends. He’s powerful—”

  “He’s just a very old man who knows some card tricks,” insisted the Freeman in charge. “Nothing more. But … assume he could be anyone. Check the women for Adam’s apples.”

  The so-called wizard just to Scott’s left in the gift shop was not Scott’s father. This man in a Mets sweatshirt and an identical pair of thick black glasses was a time-traveling scientist named Merle Lynn, and the glasses had been his idea. Each pair had a tiny light in the bridge that flashed thousands of times per second, too fast to see, and did something weird to the occipital lobe in the brain of any person looking directly at them. Scott didn’t understand the details, but the upshot was that anyone staring you in the face would be transfixed by your glasses and not really notice anything else about you. These glasses were your secret identity. So even though there were evil men in the airport looking for Scott and Merle right this second, they paid no attention to the old man and the boy in the wigs and glasses standing stiffly by the Ben Franklin bottle-cap openers.

  The Freemen were splitting up, showing people fake badges and asking them questions. Or maybe real badges—the Good and Harmless Freemen of America had a wide reach.

  “They’re coming,” Scott whispered. “Why are we just standing here?”

  “If we let ’em come to us, we’ll look like a couple a’ nobodies with interesting glasses. If we move, we’ll be a boy and an old man trying to leave. Your call.”

  Scott exhaled slowly as a Freeman in khakis and a pink shirt walked right through the gift shop and showed them a very authentic-looking police badge. Scott’s wig felt like a pile of hay. He tried to maintain eye contact without looking like he was trying to maintain eye contact, which was quite a trick.

  “Sorry to bother you two,” said the Freeman. “But we’re looking for a person of interest. Elderly Caucasian male? Mind if I ask you why you’re here?”

  “Waiting for my brother,” Merle answered. “His flight’s late.”

  “And which flight would that be?” asked the Freeman as he produced a smartphone from his jacket.

  Had he really been paying attention, the Freeman might have noticed Scott and Merle tighten up inside their winter coats. Even the backpack flinched. But the fact that he hadn’t yet registered that he was already looking at an elderly Caucasian male meant the glasses were doing what they were supposed to.

  “From Dallas,” said Merle.

  The Freeman frowned at his phone. “You’re in the wrong terminal. The only flights from Dallas are arriving into D and F. This is C.”

  “Son of a gun. Well, thanks for the help.”

  “Sure,” the man told them. “You’re free to go.”

  But they didn’t. Outside the gift shop an old woman was shouting, “HOW DARE YOU?” to another Freeman who had apparently just asked her to prove she wasn’t secretly a man.

  “Whoop. That looks like trouble,” the pink-shirted Freeman said. And he turned to leave, but here were these two people with glasses, still staring at him like idiots. He turned back.

  “Everything all right?” he added. “You don’t want to keep your brother waiting.”

  “Right,” said Merle, and he tried to back away without looking away and accidentally knocked a City of Brotherly Love snow globe off a low table. And still he did not look away.

  “Oopsie,” Scott said weakly.

  “Brilliant plan, this,” said Mick, knowing he could only be seen and heard by a very few. “A disguise that requires eye contact. Maybe later I’ll tell yeh abou’ my idea for a bulletproof necktie.”

  The Freeman backed up. He squinted. He peered at Scott and Merle as if they were one of those posters that look like noise but that reveal a dolphin jumping over a heart if you cross your eyes just right. Then he took a picture with his phone. A picture of Merle and Scott in which their glasses would not flash but would rather perch awkwardly on their suddenly recognizable faces.

  “Um,” said the Freeman. Then Merle waved a white wand at him and the man fell, snoring, in a heap.

  This wasn’t magic, either. It was more like a futuristic Taser, Scott recalled as he and Merle plowed through people and Liberty Bell ashtrays and dashed back toward the parking garage.

  “There!” shouted the man in the black hat. “Those two!” Nine men peeled away from whomever they’d been interrogating and sprinted after them.

  “YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE MOVING WALKWAY,” said an electronic voice as Scott and Merle scampered shakily onto a low-walled conveyor belt for people who didn’t appreciate having to walk a tenth of a mile to get to their cars.

  “Your fault,” yelled Merle. “Just sayin’. No reason we had to get this close.”

  “I had to see her,” Scott answered, probably too low to hear.

  “Archimedes,” Merle said into his wristwatch. “Bring the van around.”

  The narrow moving walkway created some confusion for nine men running abreast, so a number of them ran down the center of the carpeted hall instead and fell behind.

  “Any o’ them wearin’ those pink goggles?” asked Mick.

  “I don’t think so,” Scott answered. He didn’t want to look. “I think they’re trying to blend in.”

  “Aces,” Mick said, and he zipped his cauliflower face out of the backpack. Then he hopped atop the black rubber handrail and ran back toward the Freemen.

  “What’s he doing?” shouted Merle.

  Scott watched Mick curl into a ball and tumble down into the narrow alley of the walkway.

  “I think he’s bowling.”

  Freemen tripped and knocked against one another and bounced off the handrails.

  “YOU ARE NOW EXITING THE MOVING WALKWAY.”

  Scott and Merle vaulted onto the carpet again and through the exit, and then they were standing in an alcove, a recessed bay of doors set into the airport building where it met the edge of the four-floor parking garage. They stepped out among the concrete pillars and ramps of the garage, where they were joined by a barn owl and a white van. The former flew to Merle’s shoulder as the latter screeched to a halt in front of them.

  They had no intention of getting in the van, though. The parking garage only had one narrow exit, and it was sure to be guarded. Mick caught up, and the three of them ran right around the van and hid themselves behind a huge gray column between two SUVs.

  Merle spoke to the mechanical owl, Archimedes, and Freemen began pouring through the doors in time to see the white van peel away again.

  “Blockade all C garage exits,” one Freeman said into a walkie-talkie as the others moved to pursue the van.

  “Wait!” said the man in the black hat. “He’s tried this trick before. There’s no one in that van.”

  “Great.” Scott sighed. “They’re getting smarter.”

  “Listen,” said the black-hatted man, and the others listened. “Silence. He’s still on this floor.”

  The Freemen stepped lightly, spreading out, bending to check under cars. When one drew close, Merle put him to sleep with the Slumbro and Mick helped drag him behind the pillar.

  “Can you bring the van by again?” whispered Scott. And with his fist and a pair of running finger legs, he acted out a little scenario.

  Merle raised his eye
brows and nodded. He gave the Slumbro to Scott and set about trying to explain the plan to his supercomputing robot owl. Scott flicked the wand when a second Freeman rounded the pillar, and they stacked him on top of the first one.

  “Gettin’ cozy back here,” said Mick.

  Scott heard an engine rumbling close, closer, but then it was only some lady in a blue hatchback. He whispered, “How long before the van gets back?”

  “Maybe a minute.”

  A minute felt like a long time just now. The Freemen seemed to be everywhere—had more arrived? Maybe some of them were only passengers. A flight attendant pulling a pair of suitcases passed too close, and Scott put her to sleep before he could stop himself.

  “Shoot, sorry,” he hissed. “Sorry.” Mick put her with the others.

  Then Scott felt the van’s congested engine draw near. Merle was hesitating.

  “Can’t do it yet,” he groused, and nodded at a clutch of passengers entering through the alcove that separated the terminal from the garage. “Regular people in the way.” Then they cleared and he added, “Archie, peel out.”

  Nearby they heard the fuss of the engine, the shriek of tires, the high whine of a belt that probably needed replacing. The van lurched forward, and so did Scott, Merle, and Mick, four bodies running at once toward the same finish line, and Scott really hoped Archimedes had a firm grasp of the geometry of the situation.

  “There they are!” shouted someone, and a dozen undercover Freemen in their polos and chinos began to crab walk back through the sea of cars toward the terminal entrance. The fat white van hurtled around the corner, and Scott, Mick, and Merle crossed directly in front of it at top speed, with Archimedes flapping behind.

  The van was braking now, filling the garage with a kind of angry whale song.

  They threw themselves back into the bay of doors, pitched through those doors and into the terminal, then turned just in time to see the reeling white van parallel park itself neatly inside the alcove.

  It was close. The driver’s side mirror was nearly touching the door glass. Freemen tried to squeeze through a gap between the van and the wall, but Scott reached through a crack in the terminal doors and put them to sleep.