The billionaire took it all in good spirits and laid down his king a few moves before checkmate. “Well, you killed me.” He indicated the tubes and apparatus all around him. “Of course, I’m nine-tenths dead anyway.”
Jax flushed. What could he possibly say to something like that? “You look fabulous”? It would be an obvious lie. “I’m sorry” was all he could manage.
“What are you sorry about?” Quackenbush cackled. “I’m the one who’s dying.” The laughter morphed into a racking cough. The nurses stepped forward, but he waved them off — all the way out of the room. “We need a little privacy before your keeper polishes off his eggs. No, no — don’t set up the pieces again. We have something to talk about.” He reached into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair, produced a photograph, and laid it on the chessboard.
Jax examined the picture. His own face stared directly back at him, his eyes intense and deep purple. Why was the billionaire showing him a picture of himself? And where had he gotten it? Jax had never even heard of Avery Quackenbush before today. He tried in vain to recall when such a picture might have been taken, but there was no frame of reference. His face filled most of the image; the background was sterile and white —
Oh, no …
Recognition staggered him and blurred his vision for a moment. This was no posed photograph. It was a computer screenshot of the video Dr. Mako had forced Jax to record.
What floored Jax was that this picture existed at all. Mako had created a security mechanism within the video virus. Once the message was delivered, the hypnotized recipient was instructed to forget it immediately. The viewer would be bent, and therefore powerless to disobey. Then the computer pop-up would disappear, and the message would self-erase. According to Mako’s planning, this screenshot should not exist. Whoever took it should have been unaware that there was anything to take a picture of.
“Where did you get this?” Jax asked in a small voice.
The billionaire shrugged. “I could spend my money on rock-climbing gear, but I don’t think I’d get much use out of it. But private eyes, eggheads, hackers, snitches — they can find anything. As you can see, I don’t have much quality of life hooked up to tubes and wires and gauges; I don’t have much health, and I know I don’t have much time. What I do have is resources. This picture isn’t as important as what it says about its subject.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not looking for Jack Magnus, the chess champ. I need Jackson Opus, the hypnotist.”
Jax fought down a wild impulse to run. How would he ever explain it to Mr. Isaacs, who was probably still stuffing his face? And even if he could convince the teacher to make a break for it, he could never hide from this eccentric billionaire and his private eyes, eggheads, hackers, and snitches. The suffocating feeling of being trapped kept him pinned to his chair.
“I — I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The ship’s already sailed on that one, Jackson — or should I say Jax?” Mr. Quackenbush told him briskly. “I haven’t got time to trade tall tales. That special talent of yours won the election for Trey Douglas. And if he hadn’t been stupid enough to drop out of the race, he probably would have been president. But I’ve got more important things on my plate than which wing nut gets to sit in the Oval Office. I need your help.”
He knows, Jax thought to himself. He knows exactly who I am and what I did. He couldn’t imagine how, but maybe it was true that money really did buy you everything. He pondered his options. Playing dumb wasn’t working. The old guy already had too much information. Jax could bend him and try to erase all memory of Jackson Opus. But what then? He couldn’t very well track down all the billionaire’s famous private eyes, eggheads, hackers, and snitches and erase their memories, too. Sooner or later, Mr. Quackenbush would be back up to speed, this time mad as a hornet at the kid who’d hypnotized him.
No, the only choice was to hear the man out.
“What do you want?” Jax asked finally.
“I’m a train wreck,” Quackenbush explained. “You don’t have to protest to make me feel better. What’s more, I’m a train wreck with a time limit. I’ve got the best doctors money can buy, and they give me a month, six weeks at the outside.”
In spite of his unease, Jax felt genuine sympathy for his host. “What is it?”
The simple act of shrugging seemed to cost the tycoon great effort. “It’s everything. The whole shooting match. Heart, lungs, liver, kidneys. CSS, they call it — Catastrophic Systemic Shutdown.”
“I’m really sorry,” Jax said, and meant it. “Is there any hope at all?”
“I’ve got a team of researchers working on the problem night and day. And they’re getting really close to a promising treatment for my condition.”
“That’s great!” Jax exclaimed. “Uh — isn’t it?”
“It would be,” Quackenbush agreed. “If I live long enough to receive it. But it’s at least four months away. And if I’ve got six weeks … You do the math. Funny thing about money — you can hire all the overpaid, overeducated nerds in the world, but you can’t buy five extra minutes if it’s not in the cards.”
Jax studied the squares of the chessboard. It was the saddest thing he’d ever heard, even coming from a ninety-six-year-old. He would never have imagined himself capable of such sympathy for someone who had already been given nearly a century and all the wealth, success, and power anyone could want. Yet here was Avery Quackenbush — like any other person — seeing the end and clinging to precious life.
Then the tycoon spoke five words Jax had not been expecting: “That’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“I’m hiring you to come here every day and hypnotize me.”
Jax could not have been more astounded if Quackenbush had asked him to levitate the mansion off its foundations. “You mean to command you to not die? It doesn’t work that way!”
The billionaire chuckled. “If only it were that easy. No, I need you to put me in a trance so deep that the relaxation will slow down my metabolism. I’ve talked to experts who believe that you might be able to put my entire body into some kind of power-save mode. Think of the way animals that hibernate downshift their whole life force to a minimum during the winter. Well, if you could manage that, I might be able to stretch out my six weeks into the months I need.”
Jax was thunderstruck. “And your doctors say that could work?”
“Some of them. But if even one of them says it’s possible, what have I got to lose? Money? I’ve already got more than I know what to do with. And, anyway, there’s nowhere to spend it where I’m going.”
“But I’m not a doctor,” Jax protested. “I haven’t even finished seventh grade. A few months ago, I thought hypnotism was a stage trick! If you’re betting your life on me, it’s a gamble even you can’t afford.”
“You let me worry about the odds,” Quackenbush told him. “If you can control millions of people over the Internet, you’ve got a better chance of pulling this off than anybody else.”
Jax tried a different approach. “But I have parents. I go to school. How am I going to get here every day? It’s too far for me to ride my bike.” Even as he spoke, he thought of the Bentley and the multiple garage doors at the side of the mansion. Transportation would hardly be a problem.
“Let’s sweeten the pot a little,” the billionaire suggested with a sly glance. “If you give me what I need, I’ll set up a trust fund to pay your family five hundred thousand dollars a year for life, regardless of what happens to me.”
Jax was certain that all the Opus and Sparks DNA in the world couldn’t accomplish what Quackenbush had in mind. Yet as soon as he heard the proposal, he knew he was going to accept it. How could he pass up the chance to win security for Mom and Dad, who had given up so much for the sake of their son? To get out of that awful house, out of those depressing jobs — maybe out of the country, far from Elias Mako. He owed it to Braintree, too, who was stuck in the attic w
hen his heart was in the back of a Manhattan laundromat with his sandmen. It would be a win-win for everyone. And if it turned out — as Jax suspected — that he couldn’t do anything to prolong the life of the sick old man, it was still worth a try. How could it ever be bad to help somebody, even if your effort might be doomed from the start?
“Well, I have to ask my parents first,” he said finally. “And — uh — my uncle.”
“You have twenty-four hours,” the billionaire informed him in the tone of someone who was used to making the rules.
“What if I need more time?” Jax wheedled, dreading the prospect of explaining all this to Mom and Dad, much less Braintree.
“Time is the one thing I can’t afford,” Quackenbush said briskly. “We’ll start Monday. Zachary will pick you up after school.”
Jax gulped. The tycoon didn’t take no for an answer.
“I’ll have my lawyer start setting up the trust.” Quackenbush pressed a button on the wheelchair and the two nurses reappeared immediately, checking dials and readouts. “When my blood pressure gets to two hundred,” he quipped, “sell.”
The two women laughed politely.
Mr. Isaacs appeared in the doorway. “I thought you two were supposed to be playing chess,” he commented a little suspiciously.
Jax did the only thing he could think of. Braintree definitely wouldn’t approve, but the business of today had to remain secret, especially to Mr. Isaacs, who knew him as Jack Magnus, middle-school chess champion.
He stood up and fixed his eyes on the teacher. The PIP image appeared almost immediately, vivid and in surprising detail. “You’re very tired, Mr. Isaacs. You’ve had an exciting day watching a really hard-fought chess tournament. I didn’t win, but I gave it my all, battling to the end. I came in third place. You’re proud of me.”
The nurses were engrossed in the various instruments on the chair, and barely seemed to notice. Quackenbush, however, was greatly interested. “That’s all there is to it?”
Jax hushed him with a finger to his lips, and the billionaire fell silent, chastened. It was probably the first time in many decades that anyone had dared to admonish this titan of industry.
“We’re going to leave now,” Jax went on to the teacher. “When we pass through the gates of the estate, you’ll wake up refreshed and excited after a really fun competition in a crowded high-school gym. You’ll have no recollection of meeting Avery Quackenbush or setting foot inside his home.”
“No loose ends,” the tycoon approved. “I like your style, kid.”
A few minutes later, as the Hyundai merged onto the main road, Mr. Isaacs peered over at Jax. “I hope you’re not too disappointed that you lost in the quarterfinals.”
“I’m cool with it,” Jax replied blandly. “You taught me a lot about being a good sport.”
“Avery Quackenbush!” Mr. Opus exclaimed. “I thought he died years ago!”
Although Jax had never heard of the billionaire before today, to the adults in the rental home, the Quackenbush name was a household word, right up there with Bill Gates and the Rockefellers. There were small countries with full UN membership that didn’t have as much money as Jax’s new employer.
“He probably would have,” Jax agreed, “if he didn’t have a team of doctors and nurses keeping him alive. Now he thinks his only hope is me.”
“You?” his mother blurted. “I can’t depend on you to take out the garbage, and one of the richest men in the world thinks you’re going to save his life?”
“He just needs to hang on for a few more months — until his private researchers can develop this new treatment they’re working on. He thinks I can hypnotize him so deeply that his life force will slow down — like an animal in hibernation.” He turned to face the fourth person at the kitchen table. “Is that even possible? I mean, can hypnotism do that?”
Axel Braintree glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the kitchen blinds were shut. This was not the kind of conversation that lip-reading Felicity Green should be able to look in on.
“I’ve never heard of it,” he replied thoughtfully, “but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done. It would require an extremely powerful mesmeric connection. And you’d have to maintain the link much longer than usual.”
“Wait a minute,” Mr. Opus interjected. “You’re considering this?”
“It’s half a million bucks, Dad,” Jax informed his father. “Every year, forever. I changed our lives to this.” He indicated the shabby kitchen. “This is my chance to do better — for all of us.”
“If anything happens to you, half a million dollars won’t make our lives better,” his mother retorted nervously. “Neither would half a trillion. I’ve got nothing against money, but don’t you see how weird this is? How does Avery Quackenbush, of all people, suddenly need our twelve-year-old son? It’s bizarre!”
“It’s worse than that,” Braintree put in grimly. “That same Avery Quackenbush knows what Jax can do. He knows his real name, and he was able to pluck him off a plate like a shrimp dumpling.”
“Well, a man like Quackenbush has access to all the private detectives money can buy,” Mr. Opus reasoned.
“That’s not the point,” the old man insisted. “If he found Jax, that means Jax is findable. It’s probably only a matter of time until others find him, too — others like Mako.”
An icy chill descended over the table. They could debate the pros and cons of working for Quackenbush. But there was little doubt about the fate that awaited Jax should he fall into the hands of Sentia’s director.
“Does this mean we have to move again?” asked Jax’s mother in a small voice.
Braintree considered the question. “Not yet,” he answered finally. “But this should be a lesson to all of us. That time might very well come, and we have to be prepared for it. Mako may not have the resources of a billionaire, but his reach is very long.”
“All the more reason I have to do this,” Jax decided. “When the time comes that we have to disappear again, it’ll be a lot easier to do it if we have money.”
The Opuses eventually agreed, as Jax had known that they would. It only added to his guilt. Not only had they been robbed of their careers and identities; now they were no longer capable of making decisions for the family. That job had fallen to a son who was not yet even a teenager and Braintree, an oddball, intrusive stranger. Worse, they were non-hypnotic people wrapped up in the intrigues of mind-benders — exposed to the dangers, yet incapable of affecting their own fate. Dad was armed only with his memories of parents he was certain had been hypnotizing him to eat his vegetables and do his homework. Mom had even less than that — her Sparks ancestors had been inactive in mesmerism for generations. All she knew was that she had surrendered her well-ordered life to something she could not see, feel, or understand.
Of course, Jax had the ability to win every argument with his parents before it even started. All he really needed to do was bend them into seeing things his way. But he’d made a conscious decision never to resort to that unless their lives were on the line. Sooner or later, Mom and Dad would figure out he was manipulating them, and they’d never trust him again. The last thing he needed was parents who didn’t dare look him in the eye. Life was weird enough already.
Braintree was not finished with his young protégé. “The kind of hypnotic connection you are about to enter into could be extremely dangerous,” he told Jax when they were alone in the attic. “A mesmeric link is not meant to be sustained for the time it will probably take to induce the deep state of relaxation Quackenbush is seeking.”
Jax nodded. “That happened to me once at Sentia. I got too far into somebody’s head.”
“That experience will seem like a tiny cough in comparison to what lies ahead. The mind you’ll be entering is a museum housing nearly a century of memories and experiences, both exultant and tragic. The range of emotions will be enormous — unimaginable success, bitter conflict, crushing loss. Your twelve years of life cannot po
ssibly prepare you for the onslaught that will be coming at you.”
Jax looked worried. “What can I do to protect myself?”
“I’ll work with you,” Braintree promised. “But right now, I’m due at the pay phone. I’m expecting an update from New York.”
Jax watched him leave the house, back out of the driveway, and weave unsteadily down the road. The way the old guy drove, he could only hope that there would still be an Axel Braintree when the time came for his prep session.
The investors were getting nervous, and that meant Ivan Marcinko was even more nervous.
It should have been simple: Hypnotize people into believing that a Broadway play was in production — a theater rented, a cast in rehearsal, an opening planned. Foolproof.
Except for one problem: Evelyn was nowhere to be found.
Where was she? She’d missed the last four meetings! And while she could be a little flaky, where money was concerned, she was smooth as glass! If she wasn’t holding her end up, something had to be very wrong.
That’s what he was planning to tell Braintree as he strode to the pay phone on Seventh Avenue. He’d suspected it before, and now he was positive: Evelyn was in trouble.
Marcinko reached the corner and stopped short. The pay phone was occupied. He checked the time. Braintree would be expecting his call. He approached the man and tapped his watch, indicating that he was waiting. The man gave no sign that he’d noticed — his features were concealed behind aviator glasses and a fedora pulled low. Marcinko grimaced in annoyance. The guy was wearing a magnificently tailored topcoat that probably cost four thousand dollars. If anyone could afford a top-of-the-line cell phone, it was him. Cheapskate! Where did he get off hogging regular people’s pay phones?
He leaned into the man’s face and said, “Got an emergency here, friend.”
The man flipped up the aviator glasses. The eyes that were suddenly trained on Marcinko burned deep inside his brain, clutching for control with stunning force and speed.