Part 2 (1/2)

Shepherd stared at me long and hard and I could have sworn that at that moment the lights dimmed. ”I'd be disappointed if you didn't try,” he said.

”Whatever game you're playing, Myles, this time you've overplayed your hand. All I have to do is pick up the phone and-”

”He won't take your call. Ingraham, that is. That's who you were going to call, isn't it? Chief of Staff Ingraham? He won't take your call.”

His comment knocked me off balance. How did he know I was thinking of Chief of Staff Ingraham?

”I'm . . . I'm sure you won't mind if I don't take your word for it,” I stammered.

”And that cell phone number the president gave you at Camp David? Disconnected.”

”How . . . how . . . do you know about that? No one knows about that, not even Ingraham.”

”The president knows.”

Pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, Shepherd rose to full height. He looked every inch the self-satisfied prig I'd loathed for years.

”And that cute little number,” he continued, ”what's her name? Chrissy? No, Christina. Ingraham's aide. Despite your little dalliance, she won't take your calls either. You're cut off, Grant.”

Shepherd's matter-of-factness unnerved me. At this point I had but a single thought-get away from him. Alarms were going off inside of me, warning me to get out now. I took a step toward the door.

”Besides,” Shepherd said, easing around his desk, ”informing the president about an attempt on his life would be a waste of time.”

I took another step back.

”Do you want to know why?” He smiled his gladiator smile. ”Because he already knows about it. In fact, he's the one who's planning it. Ingenious, no? A president who plots his own a.s.sa.s.sination.”

A cold chill poured over me like ice water. His little bombsh.e.l.l was one of those statements that are so outrageous, so unbelievable, so farfetched that you wanted to dismiss them as frivolous, but in your gut you knew they were true.

Shepherd rubbed his hands together in a that-settles-that manner. ”Now, let's talk about the literary style of the a.s.sa.s.sination chapter. You'll want to avoid the pedantic tone you used in the first five chapters of the biography.”

My knees went weak. Only with effort did I take another step back.

”Don't go, Grant. We're not finished.”

My feet stopped moving. I didn't stop them.

”Poor Grant,” Shepherd said. ”You've been in over your head from the beginning.”

I tried to move my feet. Couldn't. ”Oh yeah?” My voice quivered as I tried to break free. ”Well . . . I'll find a way to stop you . . . somehow. Count on it.”

I began to panic. Maybe I was overreacting, but losing control of the ability to move my legs has that effect on me. ”I . . . I . . . don't . . . know what you've gotten yourself mixed up with, Shepherd . . . but I'll expose you . . . I'll alert the Secret Service . . . I'll phone the media . . . I'll . . . I'll . . . I'll tell the princ.i.p.al!”

I've never been good at trash-talking. It always comes out sounding like a two-year-old's tantrum.

Shepherd chuckled. It was a deep, throaty rumble that made the cinder-block walls shudder and the picture frames rattle. ”You can't stop us,” he said. ”We've been doing this for millennia.”

About now I was wis.h.i.+ng I'd taken the high road and left immediately following the a.s.sembly. I didn't know how Myles Shepherd was doing this, but I was obviously no match for it. I kept throwing verbal jabs, hoping one of them would land. ”We . . . you keep saying we,” I said. ”I suppose now you're going to tell me you're part of some ancient brotherhood, like the Knights Templar, or the Illuminati, or some other puerile organization of losers with secret handshakes, blood-drinking initiations, and decoder rings. Do you know how perverted that is, Myles? Most of us grew out of that stuff in junior high.”

Shepherd's smile faded. As it did, the room grew darker, which was odd because it was nearly noon. Behind me, the sun streamed into the cla.s.sroom. But it stopped at the office threshold, as though afraid to come in.

A movement caught my eye. High in the corner, above the file cabinet, wedged between ceiling and wall, grotesque figures took shape. Three-dimensional shadows with sunken eyes leered at me like medieval castle gargoyles. One of them dropped silently onto the top of the file cabinet and clutched the tennis trophy like it was a doll.

I blinked and they were gone.

”Something wrong, Grant?” Shepherd asked. ”Where's that smug superiority you brought with you into the room?”

I swallowed hard. Every instinct within me screamed for me to run. My heart banged against my chest, desperate to get out of the room, with or without me.

”I suppose you should feel honored, Grant,” Shepherd said. ”We've been grooming you for this task most of your miserable, pathetic life. You've been the perfect p.a.w.n. Predictable to a fault.”

The shadow gargoyles reappeared. There were more of them this time, cl.u.s.tered in the corner, shoulders pressed against greasy shoulders. They glared at me with intense, hungry eyes, straining to get at me like hounds on a leash.

Clouds of darkness billowed across the ceiling while the fluorescents continued humming happily. Standing beside his desk, Myles Shepherd appeared to have grown a foot taller and twice as handsome-with a radiant glow.

I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. I stood transfixed, my eyes locked on Shepherd. I couldn't turn my head aside, nor could I close my eyes. Myles Shepherd wanted me to see something, and I wasn't sure I wanted to see it. ”What's happening to me?” I cried.

Shepherd laughed. It was a laugh not of this world, sounding like a thousand wind chimes of such clarity and tone it brought tears to my eyes; a laugh that sp.a.w.ned laughter, bubbling in my gut, rus.h.i.+ng to the surface in an explosion of guffaws. I couldn't stop it. I laughed like a madman. I laughed so hard I thought my belly would burst.

My ability to speak-the only weapon I had left-was being swallowed by convulsive spasms of mirth. I had to fight it. Somehow, I had to force myself to speak. ”This . . . is . . . about . . . the tennis . . . trophy . . . isn't it?” I managed to say.

”What?” Shepherd barked.

I'd landed a blow. The satisfaction was exhilarating. It spurred me on. Two can play the taunting game, Mr. Shepherd. ”The trophy,” I stammered. ”We all . . . knew . . . you cheated . . . to win . . . it. We laughed . . . at . . . you . . . behind . . . your back . . . for . . . selling . . . your soul . . . for a cheap . . . plastic . . . trophy.”

Shepherd's jaw clenched in anger.

The floor trembled. The desk shook. Towers of papers and notebooks toppled over. From the corner, the shadow creatures screamed silently at me.

Scared out of my skin, if I'd had any sense I would have stopped goading him. ”And our . . . chess . . . matches?” I continued. ”We . . . let . . . you . . . win . . . Everyone . . . knew . . . you were . . . a sucker . . . for the . . . Sicilian . . . defense.”

The quaking intensified. Books rained down from shelves. My feet still firmly fixed to the floor, I could barely stand.

Shepherd roared. ”You insignificant worm! You cannot begin to know the nauseating pain I endure simply by being in your presence!”

”Whining, Myles? How unattractive.”

The floor undulated like the sea.

I pressed on. ”As . . . for . . . Jana? It's . . . a . . . shame . . . you . . . weren't . . . man enough . . . to . . . keep . . . her. After . . . she dumped . . . you, she . . . told . . . me . . . kissing . . . you . . . was like . . . kissing . . . a . . . trash . . . can. Ever . . . hear of . . . breath mints, Myles?”

The lights went out. The room was pitch-black while behind me the cla.s.sroom remained flooded with sunlight. I could hear books falling all around me.

A ray of light shot past me.

Then another.