"What is that?" Abbey said.

Caleb smoothed out the wrinkles. "It's a brochure from Livingstone Labs. I grabbed it while we were in the waiting room. I'd forgotten I had it. Look." Abbey and Simon peered at the brochure. Underneath the Livingstone Labs tree insignia, in fancy green script, the brochure read: Perfecting Techniques in Holding the Light.

Abbey s.n.a.t.c.hed the brochure and opened it. The brochure outlined how Livingstone Labs had pioneered the creation of the membrane from the Madrona tree. The membrane made life possible in the bubble by filtering the damaging rays of the sun but allowing in enough light for the plants to grow. Madrona, Mother, life-giver, Abbey said to herself.

"Whoa. That changes things. What if Abbey's the target?" said Simon. "The email messages only say Sinclair. Then again, the Greenhill kid was in my future."

Or it could be Caleb. Caleb, the Light, Abbey thought miserably. She watched as Wallace hopped around on the cedar chips on the floor of his cage in front of the window, the darkness of the night sky an eerie backdrop to his playful leaps. Abbey quickly pulled her blinds down, imagining all sorts of rifles trained on them from outside. Two days. What if she only had two days to live? What if Caleb or Simon only had two days to live? She swallowed against the solid lump that had lodged itself in her throat. Nowhere had this possibility factored into her career planning, life planning, or anything.

"What do we do then?" Caleb asked.

Simon pushed his toque back further on his head, his pupils almost indistinguishable from his irises. "We skip school tomorrow and go to Granton to find Salvador Systems."

Abbey suppressed a quiver of dismay. She didn't want to see Mantis again. But she couldn't see any alternative. "The stones are dangerous." Caleb's words echoed in her mind as if on an infinite loop.

"Maybe this has gone far enough. Maybe we need to tell Mom and Dad," she said. But even if they could get their parents to believe them, which was unlikely, their parents would insist on handling it themselves, and Abbey and her brothers wouldn't be allowed to go anywhere near the stones ever again, which meant she'd have no chance to save Caleb. And, realistically, telling their parents would lead to months of psychiatric treatment.

"Hey, is there a party going on in here? Isn't it bedtime?" Their father's voice floated in through the open door. The voice was immediately followed by the appearance of Peter Sinclair, his red-checked tie loosened and askew over his creased white shirt. His eyes had tired lines around them, and the gray hairs at his temples had strayed from their usual tidy script. He looked, Abbey realized with a start, much like Caleb would look in thirty years in the shadows of the teepee-without the scars and animal skins. But his eyes had that same furtive sadness in them. How long had her father's eyes looked like that? Why had she never noticed it before? Caleb thrust the email and brochure behind him. Abbey prayed her father couldn't smell the alcohol in the test tubes.

"Just discussing homework," said Caleb.

Their father's eyebrows arched. "Since when do you three work together?"

"We're working together on a directed studies computer science project," said Simon. "We have to go to Granton tomorrow to visit Salvador Systems to get some information."

"Hmm. Interesting. Just make sure you're home for dinner. Tomorrow night's the party, remember. You need to be here looking presentable by six."

"Yup, we know," said Caleb.

"All right. Your mother and I are going to bed soon. Make sure you're quiet. And I don't know which one of you did it, but the bas.e.m.e.nt door was wide open when I went down there. I know this isn't a high crime area, but you have to remember to close and lock that door."

Abbey darted a look at her brothers. She had closed that door. She was sure of it. And the lock was always on. Circles of sweat the size of quarters formed on her palms. Simon shook his head at her so fractionally it could have been mistaken for a twitch. They all nodded gravely at their father, who nodded back and departed in the direction of the master bedroom.

"Someone broke in," Caleb whispered, echoing Abbey's thoughts.

Abbey padded out of her room a few minutes later to distract her mother while Simon and Caleb snuck down to the crypt to see if anything was missing-or worse, to see if anyone was still there. Her mother lay on the couch in the dim light of the living room lamp, her eyes closed. Abbey paused in front of the family photo taken at Great Sand Dunes National Park last summer. Abbey, Caleb, and their father lit up the foreground of the photo with their fiery hair and goofy grins, their faces freckled from the sun. Her mother and Simon, already a half a head taller than his father, loomed more darkly in the back with serious expressions, secretive smiles, and shadowy eyes. They'd also gone hiking in Moab on that trip. Her mother had spent the day making wild gestures and calling family conferences regarding safety, as Caleb had run full tilt from the edge of one canyon wall to another to peer into the depths below.

Marian Beckham had always seemed to Abbey to be magically charismatic and beautiful. At almost six feet tall-Abbey could only think of distance in metric, Abbey's mother towered over other women and could look her husband directly in the eye. She was brilliant and sure of herself almost to the point of belligerence, and generally put even the most determined of opponents in their place on the playground, in social settings, in the boardroom, and, Abbey suspected, in City Hall. But this evening, her mother looked smaller than usual and more vulnerable. A single streak of white carved through her glossy brown hair, and faint pinkish bruises seemed to mark her eyelids. Abbey suppressed a pang of worry. It was probably just weariness. Her mother would rise in the morning and be as stunning and invincible as ever. She always did.

Abbey sat on the couch next to her mother's hip. Her mother's eyelids flickered and her hand came up automatically to ruffle Abbey's hair.

"How's my favorite Abbey?" she said, her voice wan and drowsy.

"Fine, Mom. How are you?"

"So tired. I'm so glad this is almost over. Two more weeks of campaigning. It's such a slog. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I can even make it. I promise, as soon as the election is over we'll take that trip to New York to go to the Museum of Natural History like I promised. Are you feeling neglected?"

Abbey paused. Her mother always felt guilty. She should tell her mother everything. Her mother would take control and Abbey would be safe and protected. But tonight, oddly, her mother looked like the one who needed to be protected. Abbey would find a better time to tell her. "No, not at all, Mom." She patted her mom's arm.

Caleb drifted past with his finger pressed to the side of his nose-their agreed-upon signal that all was fine in the crypt-before heading to his room. Another late-night conference in Abbey's room would alert their parents that something was up. She must've left the bas.e.m.e.nt door open when she ran out.

She was just quite sure that she hadn't.

The phone rang while Abbey was still at the breakfast table spooning oatmeal into her mouth. The caller ID said Greenhill Regional Hospital. Abbey s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone up. Their parents had left for work a couple of minutes before. They couldn't have gone far enough to have been in an accident and already transported to the hospital.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Is this the Sinclair residence?"

"It is." Abbey's heart began to pound.

"This is Shannon Danes at the Regional Hospital. We have a stroke victim here. A Francis Forrester. We've asked her about next of kin, and she opened the phone book to your number and keeps pointing at it. Do you know her?"

Abbey tried to imitate her mother's patterns of speech. "Why, yes, she's our neighbor."

"Oh, okay. Not a relative then?"

"No. But we're very close. Can you tell me, is she going to be okay? Where's Mark?"

The nurse's voice became hesitant, but she continued. "Mark has been taken to a group home. Mrs. Forrester will likely be okay. But if you're not a relative, I can't tell you much more. She's been pretty insistent we call you. I think she's worried about Mark. Do you know of any relatives we can contact?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Okay, thanks."

Abbey hung up the phone and provided a quick summary to Simon and Caleb.

"Why would she be calling for Mom? They know each other but they aren't friends," Abbey said. "We have to go see her."

"I thought we were going to Granton," Simon said.

Abbey grabbed her backpack. "I think we should go to the hospital first. Mrs. Forrester knows something. Then we can go to Granton and then back to school for the game. I promised I'd meet Becca's new boyfriend."

Caleb rolled his eyes. "Is that really important?"

"Yes," Abbey retorted. "It's the game against Greenhill you wanted to go to, remember?" Her despair from the night before had been replaced by a kind of manic determination to save Caleb's life. Or Simon's. Or her own. Or prove that this whole thing was just a farcical dream.

The bus doors closed behind them with a whoosh of warm air as they stepped out at the Greenhill Regional Hospital. The hushed chatter and constant hum of the bus shifted to the whir of the hospital fans as the hooded windows of the cement edifice loomed above them. They walked slowly into the busy lobby. Hospital staff in scrubs rushed past with charts and pushed carts with food and vials back and forth. Men, women and children lined benches along the walls in the waiting area, wearing sullen and tired looks. Every surface seemed like it could be teeming with germs. A woman with stray bits of blond hair escaping a ponytail chased a toddler who followed the inst.i.tutional bright green arrow that led to radiology.

The smell and heat of the hospital flooded over Abbey.

An older woman with a ma.s.s of frazzled, unnaturally blond hair, gla.s.ses, and a cheery set of blue scrubs adorned with large yellow daisies sat at the reception desk.

"Visiting, emergency, or admissions?" she asked.

"Um, visiting Francis Forrester," Abbey said.

The woman typed something on the computer and then squinted at the trio. "She's in ICU. Family only."

Abbey smiled in her best Caleb way. "We're her children."

The woman scowled and glanced back at her screen. "Mrs. Forrester is sixty-six."

"We're adopted," said Abbey. "We need to see her. The nurse..." Abbey searched her mind for the name, "Shannon Danes, called us this morning. Mom has been asking for us."

The woman looked sternly over the rims of her gla.s.ses. "I'll give you a pa.s.s to buzz in to that unit, but the ICU is not the place for children, so no funny business."

"Nice work, Ab," Caleb commented as they headed to a bank of silvery elevators following the grimy orange arrow marked ICU.

The card buzzed them in to a long room lined with beds separated by curtains. Most of the beds were occupied with p.r.o.ne forms, and the beeps of machines of all kinds echoed around the hushed room. As Abbey, Caleb, and Simon stepped into the room, a heavyset nurse with fluffy brown hair, a plain set of blue scrubs, and a nametag that read Denise blocked their path.

"Francis Forrester..." Abbey managed to mumble.

"And you are?" Denise asked.

"Her children," Abbey said. "We're adopted. Shannon Danes called us."

Denise seemed to accept the fabrication, or didn't care. "Mrs. Forrester is over there. I'm expecting another patient in from surgery shortly. And then Mrs. Forrester is going for a CT scan. You have ten minutes. She has aphasia, so she can't speak or write at this point in time. We've had some luck with drawing."

"And where is Mark? Ah, our brother?" Abbey tacked on hastily.

"I'm afraid he was taken to the Blue Moon Halfway House a few hours ago. He was too disruptive here, and there are specific orders in Mrs. Forrester's file that in the event she's incapacitated, he's not to be sent home alone. I a.s.sume someone else is caring for you at home, then?" Denise looked at her intently, in that condescending, suspicious way some adults use to deal with young children or people with cognitive impairments. She was probably trying to figure out whether there was a reason for her to be calling Social Services.

Abbey stumbled over her answer. "Um, oh yes. Our aunt is staying with us, but she can't handle Mark, too."

The nurse's smile grew more forced and her eyes roved Abbey as if searching for signs of neglect. But the ICU doors swung open as a hospital bed was pushed in bearing a woman with wires attached to her everywhere, and Denise hustled away.

Abbey approached the bed the nurse had indicated, with Caleb and Simon trailing behind. A pile of hospital pillows dwarfed Mrs. Forrester, her eyes sunken shrouds, and her tiny body outlined by the folds of the gray wool blanket. Abbey sank into the chair by the bed, unsure what to do. Mrs. Forrester's weathered and spotted hand lay on the blankets beside her. Abbey had to look away from the bulging blue veins that bifurcated their way across the woman's hand. Abbey gently pressed her fingertips to Mrs. Forrester's. The woman's eyes popped open.

Abbey spoke quickly. "Mrs. Forrester, were you asking for us?"

Mrs. Forrester shook her head violently. Abbey was about to apologize for the disturbance, when she realized Mrs. Forrester was jabbing her finger toward the bedside table, where a notepad and pencil sat. Abbey picked them up and handed them to the woman, who began to scribble. After a few seconds, she ripped a sheet off, handed it to Abbey, and immediately started to draw something on the next sheet of paper. Abbey peered at the drawing in her hands. It was of two large squares surrounded by what appeared to be waves.

Mrs. Forrester thrust another sheet of paper at Abbey. Abbey pa.s.sed the first sheet to Caleb and Simon and studied the second. It was a picture of a man with something around his neck, standing next to a bed, a truck, and a phone. Abbey scrunched up her face at Mrs. Forrester, who had already started on a third sketch. The ICU doors opened and a pair of orderlies pushing a bed headed their way. Mrs. Forrester kept scribbling.

Denise appeared at the side of the bed and began disconnecting Mrs. Forrester from various machines, piling the wires on the blanket on top of Mrs. Forrester. "Okay, finish up your drawing, time to go. They'll be waiting for you." Mrs. Forrester swatted at the nurse, who rolled her eyes. "She's a feisty one. That'll help in her recovery." Then she spoke directly into Mrs. Forrester's face. "Mrs. Forrester, you have to go now." Mrs. Forrester ignored the order.

Two orderlies moved in and hauled the older woman from the ICU bed to the one waiting for transport, and started wheeling it out of the ICU. Abbey followed the bed. Mrs. Forrester waved the notepad in the air. Abbey took the notepad and the older woman grabbed Abbey's hand and squeezed it twice. And then Mrs. Forrester let go, the ICU doors opened, and she disappeared through them. Abbey looked at the notepad. An insect and a man with slicked hair were in hand-to-hand-or hand-to-claw-combat, while maps littered the ground beneath them.

Caleb appeared at her elbow with the bus schedule in hand. "Next bus to Granton is in eight minutes. We can figure the drawings out during the ride." He pointed at the picture in Abbey's hand. "That's for sure a praying mantis going after Mark. Maybe she's telling us we have to protect Mark. If we're going to stop at the Blue Moon Halfway House after we go to Granton, we'd better get going."

Chapter 9.

Profits and Pairs of Docks

The grinding of the bus wheels felt rea.s.suring after the antiseptic hum of the hospital. The tightness in Abbey's chest eased a little. She hoped Mrs. Forrester would be okay.

They would arrive in Granton in twenty-five minutes. Abbey studied the drawing in her hands. It was the drawing of the phone, man, bed, and truck. The man had something dangling around his neck, a necktie, a noose... Abbey couldn't tell.

The bus lurched forward and Abbey and Caleb slammed against their seat. Inertia. A body in motion tends to stay in motion; a body at rest tends to stay at rest. Abbey wondered if inertia could apply to time, if she could put the brakes on the three of them hurtling into the future until they could figure this out.

Caleb leaned over. "Do you think there are poisons that can cause a stroke?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because someone, probably Mantis, came and took away the gla.s.ses. Someone who clearly didn't want anyone to know there were two people there." Caleb pointed at the drawing in Abbey's hand. "That looks like a stethoscope."

Abbey twisted the picture to the side. Caleb was right. The thing around the man's neck could be a stethoscope. "Maybe the man is a doctor."

Simon's black hoodie appeared between them from the seat behind. He held up his drawing. "Do you think these squares are wharves?"

Abbey shrugged at the drawing Simon held. "She must know, then," said Abbey, "that we've been through the stones. Why else would she give us all this?" The thought both sickened and comforted Abbey, as if having an adult know-and not think they were crazy-normalized it somehow.

Caleb flapped the bus schedule at them. "Our stop is next. Simon, do you want to maybe tell us what Salvador Systems does?"

Simon leaned his arms on the seat. "It's a start-up computer hardware company. Apparently they're building quantum computers, which will be way faster than current computers, because they encode information as qubits, which can exist in superposition. It's never been done before, but apparently Sylvain Salvador, the owner, has Quentin Steinam as an investor, which is a big deal."

"Who's Quentin Steinam?" Abbey asked.

"Steinam is a well-known investor in the next biggest thing in the computer industry. Everything he's ever invested in has gone big-iTunes, Google, Facebook, Twitter, you name it. In the computer industry, if you have Steinam as an investor, you're gold. He always has his finger in the pie."

"And he's investing in a company here in Granton, the zinc capital of the Midwest?" Caleb asked. He pulled the wire to signal the next stop.

"That's the funny thing. Apparently, Steinam has a big ranch somewhere on Circle Plateau. But he's really weird, like a recluse. n.o.body even knows what he looks like. In fact, there were no photos online of either of them, Salvador or Steinam."

The bus rolled up to the curb and Abbey, Caleb, and Simon waited for the back doors to swing open. The sky opened at the same time as the doors, and a torrent of rain struck them in the face as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The rain struck the puddles so hard that it appeared to be raining up as well as down. Abbey's orange and pink striped sweater was soaked by the time they arrived in front of the gla.s.sy doors of Salvador Systems. A big, glossy 'S' entwined with another 'S' hung above the door. Abbey traced them in the air with her fingers. The twisty S's.

"They're the S's from the s.p.a.ceship," she breathed. They seemed as if they might slide off the wall and wrap themselves around her leg.

"Guess we're in the right place then," said Caleb.

The doors opened. Three young men in jeans and hoodies sauntered out.

"Programmers," said Simon.