“He’s my partner in the project,” Mark explained.
Courtney said, “He won’t bite, he only looks scary. You know how those genius types are.”
Mrs. Chetwynde shook her head in dismay and walked out of the room. “If you say so,” she said with confusion. “Good luck, Mark.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Chetwynde!”
“Come on!” Andy Mitchell yelled. “My uncle’s waitin’!”
Mark held up his finger to Andy as if to say, “One second!” He pulled Courtney away from the window, into the living room, out of Andy’s sight. From under his jacket he pulled out a thick brown envelope. Bobby’s latest journal.
“What happened to the yellow pages with the purple ribbon?” Courtney asked.
Mark ripped open the envelope quickly and looked inside. “It’s a journal all right,” he announced. “Maybe he wrote it from another territory.”
“You’re not going with Mitchell now, are you?” Courtney asked. “We’ve gotta read!”
“I can’t blow him off,” he said. “What would I tell him?”
“Who cares! You don’t owe that jerk anything. After all he’s done to you? Mark, it’s a journal from Bobby!”
“He’s not a jerk anymore; he’s my partner,” Mark said seriously.
Courtney backed down, saying, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. But you’re not gonna take that plane tonight!”
“No,” Mark said. “I’ll help move the flowers, then come back here right after. I’ll just have to make sure it takes long enough so we miss the night flight.”
“Do you realize how hard it’s going to be for me not to read this?” Courtney said.
Mark gave her a stern look. Courtney smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll wait for you.”
Mark put his ring back on his finger, pulled on his jacket, and headed for the front door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Put the journal someplace safe.”
He was about to leave, then he turned and walked back to Courtney. He held her by the arms and said, “I am really glad you’re back.”
The two hugged. They had forged such a strong bond over the last few years that if Courtney were asked, she would have to say that as strange as it might seem, her very best friend in the world was Mark Dimond.
Mark felt the same way.
They hugged for a second more, then without another word, he was gone. Courtney looked at the envelope. She hadn’t thought about it until that second, but it was the first time she’d been entrusted with one of Bobby’s journals. Usually that was Mark’s job. Now she was the one who had to have the patience to wait, knowing that the next chapter in Bobby’s adventure was right there. She sat down and felt the paper envelope, wanting to pull the pages out and start reading. She almost did, too. But she stopped herself. It was always Mark who had to wait for her. She now knew just how hard that was.
She took the envelope and brought it up to her room, carefully placing it under her pillow for safekeeping. She had no idea why she did that. It wasn’t like the underside of her pillow was any safer than her desk, or her dresser. But she felt as if she needed to treat the pages with special care. It also helped to get the journal out of her sight, because she feared her willpower would crack and she’d read.
She went downstairs and had dinner with her parents, then did her homework in the dining room. Her mother asked her why she wasn’t working in her room as she usually did. Courtney said it was because she was tired of being alone. It was the truth, she was tired of being alone. It was one of the great things about going back to school. After being in self-imposed exile, and then being hurt for so long, she loved being around people again. But if Courtney were being totally honest, she’d admit it was also because she didn’t trust herself alone with Bobby’s journal. She was afraid that if it were in her reach, she’d go for it. So rather than be tempted, she did her homework downstairs. When she finished, she sat with her dad to watch some TV. But her mind wasn’t on the newsmagazine they watched. It was on the treasure under her pillow upstairs.
Courtney checked her watch. Mark had been gone for over five hours. How long did it take to clean up a couple of flowers? Another half hour went by. Still no Mark. Courtney couldn’t take it anymore. She went into the kitchen and called his cell phone. All she got was Mark’s message. As far as she knew, she was the only one who ever left a message on Mark’s cell phone. Her message this time was short and to the point, “Where are you? It’s after ten! Call me!”
Mark didn’t call her. Ten turned into ten thirty and then eleven. Where was he? Could he have taken the night flight to Orlando after all? No, she thought, he would have called. This wasn’t like Mark.
Finally, at eleven thirty, Courtney broke. She convinced herself with him for not calling. In her mind that justified her taking a peek at Bobby’s pages.
“I’m going upstairs, Dad” she said. “There’s a chance Mark Dimond might come by tonight; he was supposed to help me with calculus.”
“Tonight?” Mr. Chetwynde said with surprise. “Isn’t it a little late to study on a school night?”
“Yeah, I don’t think he’ll come, but don’t be surprised if he does. Mark is an odd one.”
Mr. Chetwynde would never question anything that Mark Dimond did. He had saved his daughter’s life. Whatever Mark did was okay with him, no matter how odd.
“Good night, sweetheart,” Mr. Chetwynde called.
“G’night, Dad.”
Courtney hurried up the stairs, rushed into her bedroom, closed the door, and locked it. She stared at her pillow. She was torn between curiosity and guilt. Curiosity won. She jumped on her bed, jammed her hand under the pillow, and pulled out the envelope.
He’ll understand, Courtney thought.
From out of the envelope she pulled a thick stack of small gray pages. It was notepaper, with each sheet around five-by-seven inches. Each sheet was filled on both sides with Bobby’s familiar handwriting. She was about to read when she noticed one more thing about the pages. Printed on the bottom right hand corner of each page, in small square letters, was a single word. blok.
“Blok,” she said to herself out loud. “I hope he’s figured out what that means, because it’s making me crazy.”
Courtney’s head went to Quillan. She knew Mark would understand. It was time to read.
QUILLAN
I’ve been kidnapped. Again.
Abducted, captured, taken prisoner, whatever. I’m not really sure what to call it. All I know is, I was grabbed, tied up, driven somewhere, and thrown into a dank, wet cellar. It’s cold in here. It smells like rotten fish.
At least there aren’t any clowns.
What I don’t know is, why. My kidnappers can’t be looking for ransom. Who would pay it? They’re not treating me badly, other than sticking me in this tuna-smelling dungeon. They gave me food, and even some blank paper when I asked for it. That’s what I’m writing this journal on. I truly don’t know how much danger I’m in. Nobody will tell me anything. All I know for sure is that I’m trapped in this cell. And that it stinks. The only thing I can do is wait, and write down all that’s happened to me since I finished my last journal.
There is one more odd twist to this mess that I should mention. My kidnappers all wore dark masks, so I don’t know who any of them are, except for one. One of my kidnappers is a Traveler. Yes, a Traveler. You’d think that would make me feel better, but after all that’s happened on Quillan, it doesn’t.
I don’t mean to sound paranoid but, well, I’m paranoid. After you read about what’s been going on, I think you’ll understand why. That’s the reason I want to write now. If things turn sour and these guys are looking to hurt me, I want a record of everything that led to my being here. But don’t worry, if they try to hurt me, they’re in for a big surprise. They picked on the wrong guy.
I finished my last journal a long time ago. I don’t know how they measure time here on Quillan, but my internal Second Earth clock tells me it was at least a couple of weeks since I finished Journal #24. When last I wrote, I was in that circuslike room in the fairytale castle that belonged to Veego and LaBerge. Writing both those journals so close together really fried me. I suppose being chased, bitten, chased, chased, and shot in the back with a tranquilizer gun had a little to do with it too. I lay down on the floating platform bed that was in the center of that odd room and closed my eyes to get some rest. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t keep my eyes shut. My mind was racing in too many directions. I kept thinking about Challenger Yellow, and the Tato match, and why the challenger clothes were left for me at the flume, and the robot-spiders and… well, everything. It didn’t help that there were hundreds of clown-doll eyes staring down at me either. I kept thinking that LaBerge had to be some kind of freak to decorate a room like a clown carnival. Okay, I was also thinking that these dolls were going to come to life and tickle me to death or something, but that’s embarrassing to admit.