Molly Moon Stops the World (20 page)

“So there were two of us, you
and
me, freezing the world?”

“Yes. Anyway, you fainted, and froze, and of course Rocky froze with you,” Sinclair explained. “When you blacked out, time didn’t start again because
I
was holding it still. The magpie never hit you because
I
was holding it back. Then I immediately released you, and Earl and I”—he pointed to his bodyguard—“we carried you away. We came straight here, to the hut.”

“Weren’t you scared Cell would catch you?”

“A little. But he thought I was clearing up all the mess. Hosing all the blood down the drains and getting rid of the bodies.”

“Does he kill everyone who’s a threat to him?” asked Rocky.

“No,” answered Sinclair. “Everyone just disappears. Primo wipes away their identities, making sure they don’t know who they are ever again. He turns them into lost souls who hear voices in their heads. Then he dumps them in faraway places.”

“Like garbage.”

“Yes. Nobody will ever know who they are, least of all themselves.” Sinclair shifted uncomfortably, obviously not enjoying the conversation. But Molly was too full of questions to let him be.

“Didn’t you ever try to save them?”

“Yes, but Primo never involved me in the identity wiping, and so it was difficult to help. If I’m honest, there were some who I might have been able to help, but I was scared. I hate myself for that. But you see, I’m not a hero. I’m weak.”

“You saved us,” said Molly. “That was brave. But why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Molly, Primo controls the L.A. police. He controls practically the whole of the American police force. You have no idea how powerful he is. The same goes for the newspapers. Most of the editors are under his thumb. If I went to reporters and told them everything, Primo would know about it immediately. Then he’d get me.”

“Couldn’t you
de
hypnotize some of his victims?” suggested Rocky. “You can stop the world, too. We know Cell makes his hypnosis permanent by stopping time. You could stop it again and
de
hypnotize them.”

“Sounds easy,” said Sinclair. “What you don’t know is that Primo uses special secret passwords. It’s what completely locks in his hypnosis.”

“Passwords?” said Molly.

“Yes. They are the real keys. Without his passwords, his victims can’t be released. I don’t know what Primo’s passwords are.”

“So why did you finally wake us up?” asked Molly.

“Because I need your help. Since your ordeal in the
magpie chamber, something else has happened. Primo has become much more dangerous. Time is running out.”

“It’s about E Day, isn’t it?” said Rocky. “It must be getting closer.”

“Yes.”

“What does it mean?” asked Molly.

“You don’t know?” “No,” they said in unison.

“E Day,” said Sinclair, “is Election Day.” Sinclair looked at Molly and Rocky’s quizzical expressions. “Primo intends to become the next president of the United States.”

“But he can’t,” said Molly incredulously. “To become president, you have to have hundreds of supporters, you have to be in charge of a whole political party, you have to have been a politician for
years.”

“That’s not true. Anyone can become president,” said Sinclair, “as long as they were born in America and are thirty-five years or older. It’s November the third now and Primo began his campaign in June—really late, but he’s done it brilliantly.”

Sinclair proceeded to tell them about the summer’s “Cell for President” campaign. Cell had pumped millions and millions of dollars into it, running as an independent, meaning that he didn’t belong to any
political party. The campaign had stretched the length and breadth of America and been so intense and lavish that every citizen of the country couldn’t fail to know about him. “Cell for President” posters had adorned thousands of walls. “Cell for President” hot-air balloons had floated over cities and towns. He’d been to every state and rented stadiums where the public had been treated to the spectacle of their favorite celebrities making speeches. Cell’s hypnotized stars had talked about how much better life would be with him as president, and why they’d be voting for Cell. At each venue, Cell had given a speech, his face projected so that it was a hundred feet high on screens. Everyone who looked at the screen was, of course, hypnotized by him.

The splendor and power of his campaign had completely overshadowed Gandolli’s and the other candidates’.

The desire for Cell as president had spread like a wildly contagious disease. “American Souls and American Cells—Need America’s Cell.” That was his slogan.

“You’re talking as if Election Day already happened,” Rocky observed. Sinclair shuffled and looked at his feet.

“It already has.”

“It already has?” cried Molly, so loudly that Petula
barked. “And what happened? Did he win?” Sinclair avoided her eyes. He dropped a newspaper at her feet.

P
RIMO
C
ELL
W
INS
P
RESIDENTIAL
R
ACE
ran the headline.

“It was a landslide victory,” Sinclair mumbled. “Election Day always happens on the first Tuesday in November. That was yesterday. November the second. This is this morning’s paper.”

For a moment there was silence. Then Molly’s tongue and brain connected.

“Are you crazy, Sinclair? Why did you wait this long to wake us up? We could have sabotaged his campaign, we could have tried to work out his passwords, we could have done something, but instead, you left us
here.
Are you stupid or something?” Molly paused. “I’m sorry, Sinclair. It’s just it seems to me you’ve left it much,
much
too late to wake us up.”

“I couldn’t risk it. Dad thought you were dead, and that’s what has kept you safe,” said Sinclair. “But today … after his victory …” Sinclair’s voice shook. “I had a crazy hope that he wouldn’t win. But of course he did. Now he’s the most dangerous man on the planet.”

Molly thought of Cell as a huge slimy creature, with slithery tentacles reaching into every country of the world.

“Why does he want to be so powerful?” she said.

“Because he’s crazy,” said Sinclair. “I don’t know.”

Molly suddenly felt sorry for Sinclair. It had to be very difficult for him to betray his own father. She also thought he must be a very good person. After all, as Primo Cell rose to the top, he took Sinclair with him, but Sinclair didn’t want that ride. He cared more about other people than himself.

“Oh, I wish this hadn’t happened,” moaned Molly.

“He’s not actually president yet,” said Sinclair more brightly. Molly and Rocky looked perplexed.

Sinclair explained.

“There is a bit of hope. At the moment, Primo is president elect. He has a few months to prepare his advisors and organize his government before he’s handed the reins of power by the current president. This is how it always works. He’s not THE president until he’s sworn in on January twentieth. We still have time to blow him off his tracks.”

“The security around Cell is going to be double—triple, now,” Rocky said.

“But I’m his son, and he trusts me,” said Sinclair. “At least, he does at the moment. And he doesn’t know you’re alive, Molly, so we’ve got an ace up our sleeve.”

Molly was beginning to think that Sinclair was as crazy as Primo Cell. The reality of the sinister hypnotist’s becoming president of the United States was
more than her mind could cope with. What could she, a child, possibly do about it?

“I can’t help you, Sinclair. Look what happened when I tried before. I am not the magic solution to all of this.”

“You’re wrong,” said Sinclair. “There is a tiny window of hope. But I don’t want to talk about it now.” He jumped up, eager to change the subject. “I’ll tell you about it at my house.” Earl handed him a baseball cap, some sunglasses, and keys. “And no doubt you’ll want to know about your gang in Malibu.”

“Where are we going?” asked Molly.

“Back to Hollywood. There’s someone special I want you to meet.”

T
he cave in the cliffs behind the hut was amazing. Sinclair and Earl led Molly, Petula, and Rocky over a narrow walkway into the spacious, greenly lit cavern. The water inside was ten feet deep and so clear that they could see the sandy bottom.

Stalactites clung to the damp, algaed ceiling. At the far end was a concrete wall, and set in this was the steel door of an elevator. Minutes later, they were all shooting smoothly upward inside the cliff. At the top, a cream, suede-covered wall and a highly polished glass door greeted them. Sinclair pressed a button on the wall. The door slid open, and they found themselves standing outside the concrete bunker that housed the elevator. It was disguised to look like a large rock.

The view was spectacular.

“Hawaii’s over there,” Sinclair pointed out. “Perhaps when all this is over, we can make sure Primo lends you his private jet.”

“Have we learned how to fly planes?” asked Molly, wrinkling her nose as she tried to remember the lessons.

“No,” laughed Sinclair. “It comes with a pilot.”

Sinclair’s Aston Martin was parked beside the concrete bunker. Petula barked at him to open the door. It was windy on the cliff top, and the breeze was getting under her fur. They all climbed in. Sinclair revved the engine until it sounded like a lion purring. Soon they were driving up a winding, walled track to the cliff’s summit. Before them was a highway.

“This is the Pacific Coast Highway,” said Sinclair. “It goes all the way up the west coast of America. That way”—he pointed to his left—“is north—San Francisco, then Portland, Seattle, until you get to Canada. And this way”—he gestured to his right—“is south—Malibu, then Los Angeles, and eventually Mexico.”

“Wow,” said Rocky. “Where are we now?”

“This is a place called Dune Beach. It’s a two-hour drive to get back to Hollywood, so let’s hit the road.”

The Aston Martin swooped out onto the highway.

“If we’re passing Malibu, can we drop in and see
everyone?” asked Molly. Sinclair shook his head and put the gear shift into Power Drive.

“Sorry. Not just yet, Molly. At the moment they think you’re working for the Benefactor. I had to hypnotize them all not to worry about you being gone. I hope you don’t mind. But they’re all really fine—and if you reunite today, there’s a danger that Primo would find out that you’re still alive, and we don’t want that.”

Molly held Petula on her lap and settled back into the blue leather upholstery. She shut her eyes. She felt quite strange. As if she’d traveled up a time shaft, up a cylinder of time in which she’d viewed the summer and autumn months but hadn’t properly experienced them. So this was what it felt like to be hypnotized over a long period. Molly felt guilty about people whose minds she’d meddled with—although she didn’t feel bad about hypnotizing Nockman to be better. He was enjoying life more, wasn’t he? And soon her hypnotism of him would wear off completely, and he would have metamorphized into a good person.

“What have Nockman and Mrs. Trinklebury been doing? Anything exciting?” she asked.

“Yes, they have,” Sinclair replied, smiling as he pressed the stereo controls. “If you want some in-car entertainment, look at the screen.” A small screen on the ceiling in front of them flickered, and to Rocky and
Molly’s amazement, a home video began.

It showed all the children from the orphanage having some sort of party with Mr. Nockman and Mrs. Trinklebury. The microphone picked up the end of a speech that Nockman was making.

“Now at last,” he said, “I know how vunderful ze verld is.”

Everyone clapped.

“Whose birthday?” asked Molly. “Nockman’s?”

“No, it’s a party to celebrate Mr. Nockman and Mrs. Trinklebury’s engagement. It was in July.”

“Their what?” Molly and Rocky stared in shock.

“Are you sure?” said Molly. “Are they, you know, in love?”

“Yup, like two turtledoves.”

“Yuck,” said Rocky.

“Well, they’re very happy,” said Sinclair. Molly looked at Rocky. “As long as he doesn’t lead her into a life of crime.”

“No way,” said Sinclair. “From what I see, the guy’s nuts about her and will do whatever needs to be done to please her.”

“Well, I’m happy if Mrs. T. is,” said Molly. “What about the others?”

Sinclair fast-forwarded the tape. In a sitting room, Gemma and Gerry put on a show for the other
orphanage children. Gemma invited Hazel to come forward and said that she was going to hypnotize her. Molly and Rocky couldn’t believe it. Gemma and Gerry then hypnotized Hazel and convinced her that she was on the top of a very high wall, and that every time Gemma blew, the wall swayed. Hazel lay flat in the middle of the stage, trying not to be blown off.

“But who taught them?” asked Rocky.

“You did,” said Sinclair. “Well, indirectly.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Sinclair. “It seems you photocopied the original hypnotism book and they found a part of the copy. They’re quite good at
looking like
they’re real hypnotists.”

“But they are real, aren’t they? Their show looks brilliant!”

“Well, don’t be too deceived. Hazel’s acting. Gemma and Gerry have no hypnotic skills at all. I’ve checked. Mind you, they are very good animal trainers. Look at this.”

A table stood at the front of the same room with a miniature gymnasium on it. It had little slides and swings, seesaws, and merry-go-rounds. Molly and Rocky watched in wonder as Gerry got his mice to go down a slide, to ride on the swings, to seesaw, and to whizz around and around. They even stood on top of
each other in little mouse triangles.

“Gerry sure can handle those mice,” said Sinclair, as the tape came to an end. Petula glanced at the screen and blinked.

For a while they drove in silence. Sinclair concentrated on the road, but he seemed agitated, speeding up and then slowing down again and tapping the steering wheel. It seemed as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Molly thought how difficult it must be for him to be betraying his own father.

Then, as if the same subject was troubling Sinclair, he said, “You know, Primo Cell isn’t my real dad. He adopted me. And my sister, Sally, too.” He opened a cabinet below the glove compartment. Inside was a tiny refrigerator. He reached for some drinks.