Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

And I believe I’m fixing to die

Crew had gone off with her, and he had decided not to follow them, knowing that they would return. Nodding Crane had learned long ago that it was dangerous and often counterproductive to obsessively follow your prey. And unnecessary: everyone lived by patterns, by loops and returns; better to learn the patterns and anticipate the returns than follow every useless footstep. The time to follow was when the pattern broke and the prey set off on a new path.

I’m looking funny in my eyes

The suits hustled by, bent on money matters. He began to resent that nobody was dropping money in his guitar case — these masters of the universe were passing him by without even a glance. And then, out of the blue, someone dropped in a twenty.

And I believe I’m fixing to die

That was better. America. What a wonderful country. Too bad it was doomed to fail.

Gideon Crew stepped out of the car and looked up at the admissions building of Throckmorton Academy. It loomed before them, a nineteenth-century Romanesque Revival structure of gray granite, rising from perfectly tended shrubbery, flower beds, and clipped lawns. A brass plaque screwed into the wall told them the structure was known as the SWITHIN COTTAGE, following the WASPish self-deprecating habit of calling gigantic and expensive houses “cottages.” It fairly exuded money, privilege, and smug superiority.

“This is really stupid,” said Orchid, standing in the parking lot, tugging down the jacket of her tacky orange pantsuit. “I don’t get it. We look like idiots. They’re going to toss us out on our asses.”

“Perhaps,” said Gideon, clutching a thick folder of papers that had taken him hours of sustained and careful labor to prepare. He smoothed down his checked pants and jacket, adjusted his polyester tie, and headed toward the front door.

“I don’t know why you dressed us like this,” Orchid whispered furiously. “We don’t fit in at all here.”

He took her arm reassuringly. “Just follow my lead. All will become clear, I promise.”

They entered a well-appointed waiting room, and the receptionist looked at them. “May I help you?” The tone was studiously neutral.

“Hello,” said Gideon heartily, approaching and shaking her surprised hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Crew. We’re here to enroll our son Tyler in the school.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

Gideon liked that whom . Here was someone punctilious with her grammar. He shuffled through his papers. “Mr. Van Rensselaer.” It was one of those old New York names and he mispronounced it badly.

She rose and disappeared into an inner sanctum. A moment later she emerged again. “Mr. Van Rensselaer will see you now,” she said, emphasizing the correct pronunciation.

The admissions officer was exactly as Gideon had hoped: tall, relaxed, friendly, dressed understatedly. The slightly longish hair and modish glasses indicated a man who, if not exactly open-minded, thought of himself as tolerant and moderate.

Perfect.

Van Rensselaer greeted them warmly, his eyes betraying only momentary alarm as he professionally covered up his reaction to their dress and manner.

“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” said Gideon, after the introductions. “We’d like to enroll our son, Tyler, in the second grade. He’s a very special boy.”

“Of course. Naturally, we have a fairly comprehensive process here at Throckmorton Academy, involving interviews with the parents and child, teacher references, and a battery of age-appropriate testing. We have many more applicants than we can accept, unfortunately. And I am afraid to say, as I believe I explained on the telephone, there are currently no openings in the second grade.”

“But Tyler is special .”

Van Rensselaer had not seated himself. “So as I mentioned, while we’re glad to give you a quick tour of the campus, it would be unfair to take up more of your valuable time without any hope of admission for your son. If something opens up, of course, we’ll be in touch. Now, we’d be glad to arrange that tour.”

“Thank you. But I just thought I would leave this folder of Tyler’s work—” Gideon brandished the folder of papers toward Van Rensselaer, who eyed it with the faintest whiff of distaste.

“That won’t be necessary at this time.”

“At least let me leave you the symphony.”

“The…excuse me?”

“The symphony. Tyler composed a symphony.”

A long silence. “How old did you say Tyler was?”

“Seven.”

“And he had help composing this…symphony?”

“Oh heavens, no!” said Orchid, suddenly, her raspy cigarette-cured voice echoing in the hushed confines of the office. “What do we know about classical music!” A laugh followed.

Suppressing a smile, Gideon slid out the sheet music. After a moment, Van Rensselaer took it.

“He used GarageBand,” said Gideon. “It sounds great, lots of trumpets. The CD is taped there, too. You should listen to it.”

Van Rensselaer began flipping through the printed-out symphony. “Surely someone helped him do this.”

“No one. Really. We didn’t even know he was doing it.”

“Um, neither of you is musical?”

“I like Lady Gaga,” said Orchid, with a nervous laugh.

“Where does…Tyler get his musical interest?”

“No idea. He was adopted, you know, from Korea.”

“Korea,” Van Rensselaer repeated.

“Sure. Some of our friends were adopting kids from Asia and so we thought it would be cool, since, well—​we can’t have children. And it was something we could have in common with them, you know, talk about. But the symphony isn’t the only thing. Here are some of his drawings. You can keep them—​they’re copies.”

He slid out the drawings. It was amazing what you could find on the web. He’d added a little signature to the bottom of each one, TYLER CREW, before copying them.

Van Rensselaer took the drawings and looked at them.

“That’s our dog. Tyler loves the dog. And that’s some old church he found in a book.”

“Chartres,” murmured Van Rensselaer.

“What?” It had been devilishly difficult finding the right drawings from the vast selection available online; they had to combine childishness with artistic genius in just the right way.

“These are amazing,” said Van Rensselaer softly, paging through them.

“Tyler is special ,” repeated Orchid. “He’s already smarter than I am.” She put a Chiclet in her mouth and began to chew. “Gum?”

Van Rensselaer didn’t answer. He was absorbed in the drawings.

“I gotta tell you,” said Gideon, “Tyler’s also just an ordinary kid. He’s not one of those stuck-up types. He loves to watch Family Guy with us, he laughs so hard. He especially liked the episode where Peter gets drunk and drops trou in the front yard, just as the cops are driving by.”

Orchid burst into a peal of laughter. “That one was the best .”

“ Family Guy ?” A look of horror bloomed on Van Rensselaer’s face.

“Anyway, in this folder are a bunch of Tyler’s sonnets, more drawings, and a bunch more musical compositions.”

“All done by himself?”

“I helped him with the cartoons,” said Gideon proudly. “But, well, we don’t know much about music, literature, or drawing. I own a sports bar, see. In Yonkers.”

Van Rensselaer looked from him to Orchid.

“He’s also good at mathematics, I don’t know how the heck he learned the stuff. Just like when he taught himself to read when he was two and a half. Also, I’ve got some letters from his teachers in there.” He pawed through the folder and extracted a couple of letters he had carefully composed and printed on faked school letterhead. “There’s one from his math tutor — he’s way ahead of his grade — and another from the principal.” The letters waxed eloquent about Tyler’s transcendental genius and some made carefully veiled allusions to his home environment.