John Gone (21 page)

I’m in a house
, John thought.
And a
really nice house by the look of things
.

He felt comforted by the normalcy of the
location despite his run-in with Adam the last time he’d appeared
in someone’s home. Regardless of what situation awaited him on the
other side of that door, he knew he could deal with it better in a
living room than on the deck of a boat, or seated precariously in
the back of an open-bed truck.

“You made it,” Kala said, his hologram seated
on an unseen chair. His arms were crossed over his chest and his
face wore a tired smirk.

“What do you mean?” John asked, sniffing a
nearby bowl of colorful potpourri.

“As I told you, we have no idea how far the
watch will take you with each jump. If it goes too far, it will
kill you,” Kala said plainly. “I was, therefore, merely pointing
out that I am glad it did not.”

John decided against engaging in that
particular discussion. “So,” he said instead, “what do your
remarkable powers of deduction tell you about where we are?”

“Judging by the room, its architecture,
design, and contents,” Kala answered austerely, “I can confidently
conclude that we are squarely in the middle of a restroom of some
kind.”

“Yeah, but where?” John asked.

“I have no idea. I’m not a magician, Mr.
Popielarski,” Kala said. “Why don’t you pop your head out there and
find out for yourself.”

“Fine,” John said, sighing. “Just you and me
this time, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

John walked to the door and slowly turned its
golden knob. After briefly peering out from its side, he stepped
past it into the long, well-furnished corridor outside. The hallway
was empty, but the sounds of muffled voices held faint in the
distance. He looked to his feet, and found them standing on a red
carpet adorned with golden-colored inserts along its sides.

Framed portrait paintings of
important-looking men were patterned along the wall in front of
him, some with small animals in their laps sitting as austerely as
their owners. Between the frames were ornate candelabra jutting
from ornate golden fixtures. Each candelabrum held three sticks,
and each stick supported a small, controlled flame.

John approached one of the candles and blew
it out. “More snobs,” he commented. “Like the boat.”

“Either that or we’ve time traveled to the
Victorian era,” Kala responded. John froze in place, terrified.
“Oh, don’t be so absurd. I was joking,” Kala said, “That would be
impossible ... ”

John shook his head in annoyance and followed
the hallway to his right.

“ ... with your current equipment,” Kala
finished quietly.

As John walked further down the corridor he
passed seven other doors, each closed shut with a golden-colored
doorknob. The sound of voices was getting louder, though he was
still having trouble understanding anything specific.

He reached the top of a circling staircase
and spied a man with a thin mustache working his way to the
top.

“Lights out,” John said.

“Roger,” Kala responded, turning off his
visualization.

The man in the mustache reached the top of
the stairs and stopped in front of John. John stood silent, waiting
for him to speak. The man with the mustache did the same.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the
man was starting to look impatient and spoke. “
Puis-je vous
aider?
” he asked.

John’s eyes grew wide. After a few moments,
he replied the best he could. “No?” he asked, unsure of what the
man had said.

The mustachioed man shrugged and continued
past John down the hallway. Once gone from earshot, John spoke
quietly to Kala.

“France. I’m in France,” he said.

“Yes, I think that’s a fair assumption,” Kala
responded, invisible.

“Just great,” John said, meaning the
opposite. He walked slowly down the long, circling staircase. “You
know,” he said smugly, “Ronika speaks fluent French.”

“As do I,” Kala responded casually. “As well
as other languages common to the area, Bourguignon-Morvandiau,
Lorrain, Champenois, and Walloon. Well, much of Walloon,
anyway.”

“Seriously?” John exclaimed. “How am I the
only one who doesn’t speak French?”

Kala didn’t respond.

“Well, you’ll have to translate for me.”

“Yes, that will go over very well,” Kala
said. “Nothing better to keep you incognito than an
English-speaking watch hologram.”

“
Shhh
,” John said, “there are people
ahead.”

“Exactly my point.”

“
Shhh
.”

John walked downstairs into a large foyer. A
massive crystal chandelier hung above from the ceiling. A few
people were hastily walking in and out of the area, most moving
toward somewhere farther back in the house.

Suddenly, a young giggling boy crashed into
John and hid briefly behind his legs. Another man, worried and
tired-faced, walked swiftly toward the boy while repeating
“
Arrête!
” between heavy breaths. The small boy let go of
John’s pants and ran toward the back of the room. The worried man
followed begrudgingly.

John kept moving at the door near the back
he’d seen the others funneling toward. He put his hand over the
handle, looked left and right quickly, and walked inside.

He found himself suddenly in a kitchen,
mammoth in size and scope. Its scale was so immediately impressive
that he turned his watch around the room so Kala could see it for
himself. The doctor counted ten burners, two large ovens, two very
large ovens, four identical toasters next to two identical toaster
ovens, three different blocks of expensive-looking knifes, four of
each size of pot and pan, two refrigerators, one massive
stand-alone freezer that opened from the top, one small microwave
in the corner, two commercial-grade dishwashers, six sinks, and an
incalculable number of wine glasses in a variety of shapes and
sizes seated in low-hanging wooden blocks above the
countertops.

There were a number of younger people in the
room as well, dressed in stark black and white grab, preparing
foods and taking them through the back door on large silver serving
trays.

John slipped through the kitchen unnoticed,
shadowing a server all the way through to the back door. The exit
led him outside to a flat, grassy field. He was surprised for a
moment by the star-littered sky above it before remembering the
change in time zone. A wide white tent stood twenty yards in front
of him housing what must have been 150 people, each lit well by the
many bright paper lanterns hanging from the structure’s edges. Most
of the people sat in groups of eight around square wooden tables
dressed in white tablecloths. Servers buzzed between groups
delivering food, clearing plates, serving wine, emptying crystal
ashtrays, and refilling the pitchers of ice water and lemon slices
that sat center of each table.

John was pleased to see people his own age
dressed somewhat similarly to his own attire, allowing him to walk
safely disregarded into the party. He moved toward the left end of
the tent where the attendees were fewer and looked for a place to
sit, maybe eat, and hopefully remain anonymous.

Two cool fingers lightly touched the side of
his neck from behind. John jumped at the touch and whirled around
to find a girl of similar age standing behind him in a plain yellow
sundress that whipped against her body in the light breeze moving
through the tent. Her hair was brown and full, bouncing in large
rings against her shoulders as she cocked her head to the side. He
decided immediately that she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever
seen.

“
Bonjour. Qui êtes-vous?
” she asked,
smiling.

Knowing he couldn’t answer anyway, John took
advantage of the few moments he had of the girl’s attention and
looked alternately between her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were wide
and friendly, circled in a dark black liner. Her mouth was small,
made from raspberry lips. John wished that she would speak again so
he could watch them move.

“I don’t know you,” she said in a thick, but
warm French accent.

He was surprised, but happy to hear the
familiar words. “I’m John,” he answered. “You speak English?”

She smiled. “A little, yes,” she answered.
“You are family?”

“I
have
a family,” he answered, trying
to determine the meaning of her question.

She chuckled at his response. “Yes,” she
said, “but not this one?”

“Oh, these people?” John pointed his finger
across the occupants of the tent. “No, I don’t have any family
here.”

“Then why are you here?” she asked, taking a
distinct step closer to him.

“I’m just visiting,” he answered.

“But this is a family, eh ... together. Where
the family comes together.”

“A reunion?” John asked. “A family
reunion?”

The girl shrugged.

“Yeah, it’s a family get-together. I
understand,” he said.

“So, no French?” she asked.

“No, sorry.”

“But this is France?”

“I know.”

She looked puzzled. “So, who are you?”

“John,” he answered.

“America?”

“Florida.”

“Okay, Funny, come sit,” she said. The girl
took him lightly by the arm and led him to a table nearby where two
other teens were already seated. They glanced at John as he sat,
but only for a moment before quickly losing interest and returning
to their conversation. The girl in the yellow sundress sat down
next to him.

“My name is Amandine,” she spoke to his ear.
He loved the way she said her name. “That is my father,” she
continued.

“Who?” John asked.

Amandine pointed to a thin man in a light
jacket at the other end of the tent. He was standing from his chair
with a wineglass in hand.

“This is his house,” she said.

“It’s a nice house.”

She nodded in agreement. “How did you get
here?” she asked.

Amandine’s father tapped his fork against the
side of his glass loudly. Once the crowd quieted, he began to
speak.

“What’s he saying?” John whispered.

“Thanks to all the Abercrombies for coming
and sharing food,” she said, tilting an ear to her father’s
words.

“Like the clothes?” John asked.

“Clothes?” she repeated.

“Never mind.”

“He says that it is important to be together.
That we should not need events to be together.” She listened to
another few sentences. “He’s just being boring now.” She
giggled.

A loud
clang
sounded from the kitchen.
It was the noise of pots and pans colliding, possibly with the
floor or each other. The sound interrupted Amandine’s father, who
turned and looked toward the door. John tensed. The man turned back
and continued speaking to the crowd.

“What did he say?” John asked
frantically.

“A joke that meat was fighting back with the
chefs. I am sorry, I do not know how to tell it well in English,”
she explained.

“No, I know what that sound is,” John said
quickly. “I know exactly what that sound is. You need to come with
me. We have to go. Now.”

“Please, slow down,” she urged.

Two men appeared from the kitchen door, one
with dark hair, the other with blond. John grabbed Amandine’s
arm.

“Those men, they’re killers. They’ll kill
you, me, and everyone here. You have to show me the best place out
of here. We have to run. Hide. Both,” John whispered, slinking down
in his chair.

“They what?” the girl asked, pulling her arm
sharply from his grasp.

“Those two people,” John said slowly, “are
going to
kill
your family.” He made the shape of gun with
his hands and performed a shooting motion into the crowd.

“Are you telling the truth?” she asked,
shocked by his words.

“Yes!” John exclaimed. “You don’t recognize
them as family do you?”

“I don’t recognize you as family either,” she
answered sharply.

“Trust me.”

Suddenly, the girl stood and screamed
something in French at the top of her lungs. Her father turned and
looked at the men approaching his tent. He asked them something in
a demanding voice. The dark-haired man didn’t reply. The
blond-haired man coughed briefly before looking to the dark-haired
man for instructions. Amandine yelled something else to her
father.

“I don’t speak French!” John exclaimed.

“She’s not talking to you,” Kala said.
“Anyhow, she’s simply repeating what you told her to her father and
the crowd. I’m predicting a fantastic diversion for you to make
your escape through momentarily. I suggest you take it with
haste.”

The doctor’s prediction was accurate, and the
large French family stood panicked in near-unison upon hearing
Amandine’s worried announcement. Frightened squeals and angry
yelling consumed the air within the tent. People began moving
hurriedly from their tables. The frightened ones moved out from the
sides as the angry ones rushed forward toward the men in grey
suits. The sound of glass breaking took John’s attention to
someone’s table tipping over in front of him.

“Please trust me and come with me,” John said
to the girl. It was his final attempt to save her. If she didn’t
come now, he knew he’d have to go alone.

Before she could answer, the loud rattle of
automatic gunfire overshadowed the commotion. Short, controlled
spurts of bullets shot into the crowd, downing the first wave of
men who’d stepped forward. High-pitched screaming competed with the
sound of gunfire through the massacre.

“And now they have machine guns,” John said.
“I have to go, with or without you. Last chance.”

Amandine stood still, watching more members
of her extended family drop to the ground dead or wounded. She eyed
one woman in particular, hit in the arm and struggling on the
ground crying and squirming. As Amandine moved a foot forward, a
well-placed spray of bullets entered the lady’s chest and silenced
her instantly. Amandine’s stunned trance died with the woman in
front of her. She grabbed firmly onto John’s arm and pulled him
away from the tent.