Axel Braintree was a convicted art thief who had mesmerized the parole board into granting him early release. Once out of prison, he’d founded the Sandman’s Guild to help fellow hypnotists resist the temptation to use their powers for personal gain and nefarious purposes. In no time at all, monthly meetings had filled the back room of the E-Z Wash Laundromat in Manhattan. Sandmen had lined up to confess to mesmeric con games, petty crimes, fraud, pickpocketing, and bending undeserved tips and bonuses from innocent victims. It had turned out to be easy to convince the members to confess their sins; getting them to change their ways was still a work in progress. It was one day at a time, Braintree realized. And now that he was no longer in New York to run the meetings personally, he feared that his sandmen might fall off the wagon for good.
While in hiding with the Opuses, his only contact with the guild was from the one pay telephone in Haywood — outside the 7-Eleven on Main Street. It had been raining all day, and he hunkered under a plastic grocery bag that did not quite cover his dripping ponytail. He had a cell phone, but cell phones were traceable. If Elias Mako found him, it would be as good as a GPS navigation system straight to Jax. And that could not be allowed to happen.
Only one mind-bender alive had the power to stand up to Mako. Jax was young and raw, but his combination of Opus and Sparks DNA had already given him the ability to do something that was once considered impossible: Jax could hypnotize remotely, via a TV or computer screen. One day, he would overpower Mako — but not if Sentia’s director had the opportunity to crush him first.
“How was the meeting last night?” Braintree was asking. “Did you get a nice turnout?”
“Standing room only.” Ivan Marcinko was also on a pay phone. In New York City they were much easier to find. “Gresalfi Brothers sent over free pizza. Of course, they thought they were feeding the Salvation Army.”
“How could you use hypnotism to get food for a guild meeting, of all things?” the old man scolded.
“I didn’t,” Marcinko defended himself. “I just lied.”
Braintree held his head. “Well, it’s nice to know you had good attendance, even with me out of the picture.” In the interest of security, he never mentioned Haywood or even Connecticut.
“How’s the dry cleaning?” More code-speak. Jax was the dry cleaning. His parents were the groceries. Together, the family unit was “my errands.”
“Safe, for now. I’m concerned about a few — stains.” Jax’s newfound chess career was very much on Braintree’s mind, but there was no code word for that. Braintree had worked out a few strategies to ensure that Jax made a poor showing at the tri-county tournament, which would be wrapping up any minute. “And the groceries don’t always agree with me. Let’s just say there may be … food allergies involved.”
Marcinko cleared his throat on the other end of the line. “Evelyn Lolis wasn’t at the meeting last night. I asked around. Nobody’s seen her for a long time.”
“Well, that’s not unusual. Evelyn marches to the beat of a different metronome —”
“She missed a business appointment yesterday,” Marcinko interrupted.
A hint of suspicion crept into the old man’s voice. “And you know this because …”
“I’m her partner.”
“She’s a waitress; you’re a TV salesman. How could you possibly be business partners?”
“Since we both happen to be between jobs at the moment —”
“You mean you got fired,” Braintree amended.
“We’re producing a Broadway play.”
“A Broadway play?”
“It’s just in the early stages,” Marcinko admitted. “You know, lining up investors. We had a meeting with the wife of a very prominent Wall Street banker, and Evelyn didn’t show up.”
Light dawned on the president of the Sandman’s Guild. “You’re bending people into investing in a play that doesn’t exist so you can take their money!”
“It exists,” Marcinko said stubbornly. “It just doesn’t exist yet.”
“Don’t con a con man, Ivan. I’ve been in jail.”
“You’re missing the point. This whole thing was Evelyn’s idea. She set up the investors’ meeting. I’m worried about her.”
“Maybe her conscience was bothering her. Maybe she remembered what the guild is supposed to be about.” Braintree looked at his watch. “I have to go pick up the dry cleaning. Keep your ears open for her. I’ll try to call at the same time tomorrow.” He hung up and got into his 1999 Dodge Avenger.
The old man had been in New York City more than three decades, and hadn’t held a valid license since his stint in prison. The Avenger had been the cheapest vehicle on Ashton Opus’s used-car lot.
He began to lurch around the streets, accelerating unsteadily and slamming on the brakes too hard. After thirty years, he was none too skilled behind the wheel.
The chess tournament was at Bolton High School, which was less than ten minutes away. He left the Avenger in an empty part of the lot. It was a long walk to the school, but he hadn’t quite mastered parking yet. All those cars so close together — how did people manage it?
As he trudged into the building, he made an effort to control his irritation. It was easy to forget that Jax was only twelve. Naturally, the kid wanted to feel success at something, despite the truth that it had little to do with his skill as a chess player. He would learn soon enough that hypnotism played at least some part in all aspects of his life. Every A he received from a teacher, every girl who agreed to be his prom date, even the love and support of his own parents — none of it could be trusted 100 percent.
The good news, Braintree reflected, following signs to the cafeteria, was that nobody cared about a middle-school chess tournament. So it was no harm done.
He turned the corner into the lunchroom and stopped dead. There stood Jax, triumphantly brandishing a trophy that was at least three feet tall. A reporter held a microphone under his nose as a TV videographer recorded the interview.
“… well, I was a little nervous when he used the Sicilian Defense,” Jax was saying, “but I was able to fight back.”
Without hesitation, Braintree inserted himself between Jax and the camera.
“Hey, Grandpa!” the reporter barked angrily. “We’re in the middle of an interview here.”
The founder of the Sandman’s Guild fixed his experienced gaze on the videographer, hypnotizing him quickly. “The object you hold just burst into flames,” he intoned in a low voice.
With a yelp, the man let go of the camera. It shattered at his feet, sending pieces in all directions.
“What are you doing, Bernie?” The reporter dropped to his knees and began scuttling after rolling components. “That’s an expensive piece of equipment!”
Bernie rubbed his hands together vigorously. “I need ice!”
“Ice?”
In the confusion, Braintree hustled the chess champion and his trophy out of the cafeteria.
“You just broke your own rules,” Jax accused.
“He had video of you — talking about where you live and what school you go to.”
Jax was sulky. “I doubt Dr. Mako watches Haywood TV.”
“And if the station posts the clip on their website? Your biggest fan, Felicity, will have it on YouTube in a heartbeat. You think Mako doesn’t have his young disciples searching all media for you?”
“Can I keep the trophy?” Jax asked in a sheepish voice.
Axel Braintree heaved a sigh. “You can put it in a dark corner, away from the nearest window,” he said finally. “It’s a very nice trophy. Congratulations.”
There was at least one thing to celebrate: Jack Magnus’s chess career was over.
“Great news, Magnus,” Mr. Isaacs said in homeroom the following Wednesday. “You’ve been selected to play in the Connecticut Invitational All-Star Tournament!”
Jax couldn’t suppress the delighted grin that took over his face. “Really? Is that good?”
“Well, I’ve never heard of this one,” the teacher admitted. “But that’s probably because nobody from Haywood has ever qualified before. It’s on Saturday, up by Avon. You can make it, right?”
“I’ll have to check with my family.”
“Tell them not to worry about transportation. I’ll pick you up around eight, and get you home safe and sound.” Mr. Isaacs beamed. “You know, at first I thought you were a mediocre player — that you just happened to draw weak opponents, and catch the strong ones on an off day. But there’s a simplicity to your game that’s almost brilliant. You lull the competition into a false sense of security until they do something stupid. You’re going to put Haywood chess on the map.”
“I absolutely forbid it,” Braintree said later that night. “We barely kept you off the TV last weekend, and we couldn’t stop the Haywood Gazette from printing an article. That has to be where this new tournament got your name.”
“You know, this time I think I agree with Axel,” Mrs. Opus chimed in. “Newspapers, TV — that negates the whole purpose of why we came here.”
“I won’t do any interviews,” Jax promised. “I probably won’t even win.”
“On the other hand,” Mr. Opus countered, “Jax seems to be showing a real knack for this. Why should we stifle his talent?”
“I explained that to you,” Braintree said patiently. “He’s not playing chess; he’s playing the other players. If you examine your own family history, you’ll find dozens of virtuosos who did exactly the same thing.”
“I don’t remember hearing about any chess masters.” Ashton Opus didn’t like to discuss his heritage. It had not been pleasant to grow up as the non-hypnotic child of two talented mind-benders. “There were some good poker players, though. Maybe too good. I think one of them got shot in a saloon in the Old West.”
The old man pleaded with them. “You people gave up everything so you could come here and hide. Why would you let Jax wave himself around in the public eye?”
Jax’s mind was made up. “I already said yes to Mr. Isaacs. If anybody tries to interview me, I’ll bend him to pick somebody else. It’ll be fine.”
“I’m trying to remember where I’ve heard those words before.” The old man sighed. “Oh, yes — that’s what they said aboard the Hindenburg.”
The GPS in Mr. Isaacs’s Hyundai drew them farther north into Connecticut, past Hartford into a wooded area of large stately homes nestled among mature trees. It seemed a lot wealthier here than in Haywood, although a city kid like Jax didn’t have much of a basis of comparison. There were plenty of rich people in Manhattan, but these classic New England towns had a different vibe — older and more dignified, the kind of places where movies were set.
“So this is how the other half lives,” Mr. Isaacs commented, seeing Jax peering out the window.
“I guess.” The teacher could not have known that Ashton Opus’s clients at the Bentley dealership had been the other half of the other half — rappers and Wall Street big shots, West Asian princes and movie stars. Jax had never worshipped his father’s famous customers, but it made him sad to think about how far the family had fallen, thanks to him.
Past the main drag of Avon, they seemed to leave civilization altogether, entering what appeared to be a vast forest preserve.
At that moment, the GPS announced, “Arriving at destination.”
Jax was taken aback. “Where — here?”
Mr. Isaacs craned his neck. “Who holds a chess tournament in the Hundred Acre Wood?”
The forest suddenly parted to reveal two towering wrought-iron gates designed with an elaborate pattern of leaves around a large letter Q. With a buzz and a crack, the Q separated in the middle as the impressive portal began to swing open.
“Whoa,” Jax breathed.
The teacher maneuvered in through the gates onto a vast estate that was more on the scale of a national park. Although outside the twenty-five-foot fence was dense forest, the property itself was all rolling lawns, manicured with golf-course care. The Hyundai wound along a meandering road past large topiary animals. A ten-foot-high bear seemed to be reaching for Jax through the passenger window as they passed by.
“There must be a building here somewhere,” Mr. Isaacs mused, brow furrowed.
As if on cue, they crested a rise and there it was. The word mansion didn’t do it justice; it was more like a palace. Not the kind with towers and turrets, but a gigantic stone home that reminded Jax of the Museum of Natural History, or perhaps the White House on steroids.
It was easily half a mile to the point where the drive wrapped around the front fountains, which would have more than filled a football field.
The teacher frowned. “Where is everybody?”
There was only one other car on the drive. Jax recognized it from his father’s ex-dealership in Manhattan: a high-end Bentley limousine. With a price tag around six hundred thousand dollars, it probably wasn’t the carpool vehicle that had brought some of the other chess players. It belonged to the owner of this house, whoever that might be.
“Maybe there’s a parking lot out back,” Jax suggested. “You know, for the normal cars.”
The cast-bronze front doors of the house swung wide, and out stepped a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit.
As he approached the Hyundai, Mr. Isaacs lowered the passenger window, leaned over the seat, and called, “We’re here for the chess tournament. This is the place, right?”
It was a valid question, but it seemed like pulling up to Buckingham Palace and asking the Grenadier Guards where the chili cook-off was.
“You must be Mr. Isaacs. And Jack Magnus. You can leave the car and I’ll show you inside.”
Teacher and student shared a look. What kind of tournament was so well run that they recognized not only the contestants but their drivers as well?
At the front door, Jax wiped his feet about twenty times. If he tracked mud into this place, it might unlock a hidden reservoir of Mom-guilt that would overwhelm him.
The house was cavernous, with endless anterooms, and staircases spiraling off into what looked like ceiling-less space. Jax was pretty sure he recognized some of the paintings from art class. He might have been wrong, but his teacher was gazing around the place absolutely pop-eyed.
“That’s a Vermeer,” he mumbled to Jax. “A real one!”
“My employer is an avid collector,” the man informed them. “Perhaps there will be time for you to tour the galleries.”
“Where’s the tournament going to be held?” Mr. Isaacs asked.
“And where are all the other players?” Jax added.
“My employer invites you to join him for breakfast” was the only reply.
The teacher stopped in his tracks. “Is there a chess tournament here today?”
“I prefer to allow my employer to provide that explanation.”
Mr. Isaacs dug in his heels. “I’m responsible for my student. His parents gave him to me so he could play chess. If that’s not going to happen, we have to leave.”
“Well, then we’ll have to tie you to your chairs and force-feed you oatmeal!” came a papery voice in an amused tone. “Cut the cloak-and-dagger, Zachary.”
Zachary stepped aside to reveal the speaker — an ancient man in a high-tech wheelchair, frail and a little shaky, yet absolutely confident in the way of the very wealthy. Tubes and wires were attached to his body, and he was flanked by two nurses who monitored gauges and readouts all around him. His skin matched an elephant’s in both color and wrinkle content, yet there was something alight in his face — intelligence, even youth.
“You’ll have to excuse Zachary,” their host apologized. “He’s the perfect gentleman’s gentleman. Problem is I’m no gentleman. Avery Quackenbush. Forgive me for not getting up. I might blow a gasket on all this fancy machinery.”
Mr. Isaacs goggled. “Avery Quackenbush the media tycoon?”
“No, Avery Quackenbush the sewer cleane
r.” When he grinned, it stretched the skin tight over the bones of his face, giving him a skeletal appearance. “I got all this stuff clipping money-saving coupons.”
A high-pitched giggle escaped Jax. Whatever this old buzzard wanted, he was a pretty funny guy.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” the teacher put in quickly. “But I’m supposed to be taking Jack to a chess tournament. This obviously isn’t it. What exactly are we doing here?”
The billionaire waved it off. “No need to apologize. People have been disrespectful to me for ninety-six years. It rolls right off me like water off a duck’s back. There’s no tournament here today, but I had Zachary pick up a really nice trophy in case you have to prove that you’ve been to one. I’m an old man, and the enjoyments left to me in this life you could count on the fingers of one hand. Is it too much to ask to play a game against this young chess master I’ve been reading about in the papers?”
Jax spoke up. “Why me? No offense, but you could afford to fly in the world chess champion or buy yourself that IBM supercomputer that beat him.”
The old man’s laugh was like someone crushing cellophane. “I’m a terrible chess player. I couldn’t hold a candle to the champ or Deep Blue. But I might be able to beat a kid.”
Jax regarded his teacher. “Would it be okay?”
Mr. Isaacs sighed. “Well, it’s not what we came here for. But if you want to give Mr. Quackenbush a game, I can’t see any harm in it.”
Zachary cleared his throat. “A light breakfast is served in the solarium.”
The “light” breakfast turned out to be an elaborate buffet prepared by the billionaire’s personal chef. Jax wasn’t hungry, and Quackenbush’s ill health prevented him from enjoying a hearty meal. Leaving the teacher attending to a heaping plate of eggs Florentine, the two chess players repaired to an adjoining games room. They sat down across an elegant set carved in ivory and onyx.
The pieces were smooth, perfectly weighted, and a pleasure to handle. Jax had the billionaire over a barrel in slightly less than eleven minutes. Avery Quackenbush had told the truth — he was a terrible player.