Another Pan (40 page)

For once, John didn’t make a smart-mouthed comment. He looked around for a while, searching for an answer, and then said, “Fine.”

A few hours later, long after Professor Darling had fallen asleep, Peter convinced Wendy and John to climb out the window in their pajamas (much less suspicious in case Professor Darling woke up) and sneak into their father’s room from the window ledge. Outside, the sky was clear, and Wendy could see a few scattered stars. She could see all the way down the street, where people were darting in and out of houses, attending dinner parties, going to the movies, or just returning home from work. As the trio stepped over the windowsill onto the thin ledge outside their house, Wendy glanced inside at her unmade bed, the comfortable yellow light of her bedroom. What was she doing climbing out the window with Peter? Boyfriends weren’t supposed to lure you into a life of crime. Connor had never gotten her into trouble once. In fact, she was pretty sure her grades had gone up during the time she was with him (lots of study time during games). Those thoughts made her want to go back and put an end to this craziness. But then she thought about how much they had accomplished together. She thought about how without her Peter wouldn’t have found the second bone, or the third, and about how quickly her confusion had left her when Peter had kissed her right in front of everyone. And she thought about Simon, how he was probably scheming to get the book right now, so he could build a glorious career. He might break into their house tonight or steal the book tomorrow. Or he might be waiting for them at Marlowe, knowing that they would go looking for the fourth item. She thought again about how Peter had kissed her, and how he would kiss her again. And knowing all that, how could she possibly say no?

That night, as George Darling fell asleep, he thought he saw his children playing outside, like they used to do when they were little. He saw their shadows running after each other under the yellow glow of streetlights. They had grown up so fast. Soon they would be running away for good. He dreamed that they were in his room, rifling through his drawers like they used to do, when they thought he was hiding candy from their health-conscious mother.
No,
he thought,
those days are over. They can never come back. I can never stop them from growing up
. He felt useless, helpless, powerless — a never-never man down to his aging, porous bones. Under the drunken haze of deep sleep, Professor Darling thought he saw the children take something.
Ah, they’ve found my candy stash, then. No harm in a little treat every now and then,
he thought, turning groggily in his bed. But then, his eyes heavy with sleep, he imagined that he saw a third figure, an extra silhouette . . . And then, the shadows of three fugitives escaping into the night.

At night, Marlowe was dark and looming, like an ancient fairy castle full of secrets and ghosts that are afraid of the sun. But none of them noticed the chill in the air, the flicker of lamps on the lawn, or the pitch-black hallways. They had the book. They were running away, in their pajamas, having just committed grand theft from the British Museum, the Marlowe School, and the state of New York. And those were just the institutions. What about the donors? The board members? The shareholders? Trying to name all the powerful people they had just robbed would take all night.

Wendy felt a rush as she clutched the
Book of Gates
. Simon could be anywhere. Had he followed them? There were faint lights coming from some of the classrooms.

On the way to Marlowe, the three of them had frantically tried to figure out where the fourth bonedust would be.

“Peter, I have to tell you what I saw,” said Wendy. “There were two Eyes of Ra outside the boys’ dorm.”

“Can’t be,” said Peter distractedly.

“Why not?” said Wendy, hurt that he was dismissing her information so quickly.

“You must have imagined it, Wendy,” said Peter, “because the eye appears only where there’s a gate. It’s not a clue.”

“Can’t we at least consider it?” Wendy demanded, suddenly not caring about the quest, only wanting Peter to listen to her. But Peter just ignored her and went on with his questions. Marcus Praxis was a Nubian warrior. . . . Where did that lead? John suggested something related to the military, or to horses. But Peter rejected both.

“I tried those things when the underworld was attached to the British Museum. I got to a battlefield through an exhibit on the history of warfare and to a Nubian camp through a display about horses, but it wasn’t in either of those places.”

“This is the part I don’t get,” said John. “Marlowe doesn’t have stuff like that. How does the labyrinth match up crazy stuff like that with the school?”

“It just does,” said Peter. “It always finds a way.”

Their collective nervousness was feeding on itself, and every two seconds one of them snapped at the others. All three of them were growing more and more rushed and agitated. They knew that with every passing second they came closer to getting caught.

Wendy suggested they look for clues relating to Hurkhan.

“What about something to do with fathers?” she said.

“Where would
that
lead us?” snapped Peter.

“I don’t know,” said Wendy angrily. “But the story was mostly about Marcus Praxis and his dad. So why not start somewhere like that?”

Peter shook his head. They arrived in the main hallway and sat down next to a row of lockers. Peter rested his head in his hand, and John was changing position every five minutes — that is, when he wasn’t pacing. Wendy just brooded.

“Can you stop that?” Wendy snapped when John began mumbling to himself while zigzagging the width of the hallway. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“I can’t help it,” said John.

“Simon’s coming, you know,” said Peter, his voice showing a hint of tension. “That nerdling is gonna come marching in here any second, and we’ve got no clue where to go.”

John didn’t say anything.

Wendy couldn’t hold back her frustration any longer. “If you’re not going to listen to me, then I don’t care about this stupid quest anymore. I want to go home.”

“What?”
Peter said.

“You heard me,” said Wendy.

“Yeah,” said John.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” said Peter, his voice strained. “Can’t you guys see that this is just because of
her
? She’s poisoning your mind so you’ll quit the search. Wendy.” He went up to her and tried to hold her in his arms. “Hey, now. What’s the matter?” His voice was calm now, and he kissed her cheek. “You’re not gonna abandon me now? I mean, now that I’m fired, we can be official. You know . . . you can be my girlfriend.”

John snorted and mumbled something.

Wendy smiled and let Peter hold her. “OK,” she said, feeling a rush of certainty — that wonderful feeling that comes with knowing for sure. Peter was right. They weren’t at their best now. She knew that under this kind of pressure, with this kind of rush, they were bound to make mistakes. And she really did want to help him.

“I’ve got it!” said John suddenly.

“No, you don’t,” Peter mumbled into Wendy’s hair.

“Yeah, I do,” John insisted. “We’re supposed to focus on what the person lost, right? Harere’s hiding place was tied to her lost identity. So I think we need to focus on what Praxis lost. What did the people call Praxis when he was at the height of his glory?”

Wendy looked up. “I have my notes from the legend in my locker. I’ll just go and see —”

But Peter didn’t need Wendy’s notes.
“Pharaoh builder,”
he said.
“God maker.”

“That’s right,” said John. “Now, imagine if the world was all about a person’s accomplishments, like it should be. Imagine if people were judged by what they did, not by their family or their looks or whatever. Then what would his rightful place be?”

“As the pharaoh,” whispered Peter, his eyes wide with satisfaction.

They sat quietly by the lockers, thinking about the story. Marcus Praxis had lost more than even
he
had known. He should have reached heights that he probably could never fathom, given his upbringing. They tried to think of places in Marlowe where a man who should have been pharaoh might live.

“Principal’s office,” said Wendy.

“Worth a try,” said Peter. “He’s the guy that runs this place.”

So they ran to the headmaster’s office. Peter picked the lock but didn’t open the door — not until after the book had been opened, the name of the hour had been said, and the Eye of Ra appeared on the threshold. Then he looked at John and Wendy and nodded. All three stepped into the abyss just beyond the cookie-cutter image of the headmaster’s room, with its mahogany desk and leather chair.

An hour later, they were back in the hallway, disappointed and even more pressed for time. Each time any of them heard the slightest movement, the rustling of a discarded piece of paper or a gust of wind, they jumped, thinking it was Simon — or worse.

“You know what?” said Wendy, pacing. “I think we got the leader thing all wrong. I mean, at Marlowe the headmaster isn’t really the leader, is he? He barely has any power, and nobody respects him. Praxis wasn’t powerful because he had a job title. He was just this awesome warrior.”

Just then, John got up from the floor and ran a few feet down the hall, yelling over his shoulder as he went. “You’re totally right, Wen. We need to find the biggest stud in Marlowe — the person everyone worships.”

“Where are you going?” asked Wendy.

John stopped in front of the trophy case. Dozens of golden trophies, tributes to Marlowe’s athletic prowess, sparkled behind the glass. Each morning, the trophy case was polished. Each week, visitors and potential donors were brought to marvel at it. Every day, students passed it and were reminded of Marlowe’s talents and achievements.

Well, not so much Marlowe’s talents and achievements as
Connor Wirth’s
.

Almost every trophy had his name on it. Every few inches, photos of him accepting awards were tucked beside gold medals.

“Connor Wirth is Marlowe’s Marcus Parxis,” said John. “He’s the real leader — the pharaoh without a title.”

For a brief second, Wendy was overcome with pride. But then she remembered that she had no reason to be. She had given up Connor. “So you think we should go through the trophy case?” said Wendy, dreading the idea of breaking that massive lock.

“No way,” said Peter as he jogged toward John. “We’re looking for Praxis’s house or his tomb or something. We need a space that
belongs
to Connor. Which one is his locker?”

The trio rushed to Connor’s locker, forgetting to look around for prying eyes or to speak in hushed voices. Peter yelled out the name of the hour before he had even reached the metal door, breaking the flimsy lock with a hard kick as soon as he saw the eye.

Tick-tock
. Simon stood in a narrow hallway around the corner from Connor’s locker. He waited and tapped his foot, checking his multi-watch every two minutes. By now, Simon had read all the literature in that forgotten shelf of the Egyptology Library. He hadn’t been rushed or scared of getting caught. All night, he had been brainstorming and puzzling out clues, with his mind as sharp and clear as the day he took his college entrance exams. It had taken him very little time to figure out that Marcus Praxis would have a Marlowe counterpart. In fact, he had had that part down way before the gala. After all, every place has someone that’s revered above all others. It did take Simon days to figure out who that was, though. His attempts at information gathering led nowhere, particularly because his preferred approach was to yell across the crowded hall, “Hey, you, pea brain. Who’s the coolest kid at school?” In the end, he had to pay two hundred bucks to a group of cheerleaders for a copy of their
Hot or Not
poll (he forced himself not to comment on their biased data and their infantile calculations).