He prodded the air, muttering to himself and to the strings themselves, as if they might answer his questions.
Finally he turned to me. “It’s amazing. The Echo’s still there, on the other side?”
“According to Ms. Powell, yes. And I believe her. Simon’s Echoes still have a signal. They’re alive.”
He shook his head, trying to take it all in. “You’re saying the Consort’s been killing Echoes for years. Since . . . always.”
“Exactly! But the Free Walkers are trying to change things.”
Eliot snorted. “You might not have noticed, but the Consort’s not a fan of change.”
“So you think we should go along with them? Keep killing?”
“I think we should be smart. We need to stay alive—and under the radar.” He nudged up his glasses. “And that starts with figuring out how to keep the Consort from connecting Ms. Powell to us.”
I considered this. “Powell wasn’t her real name, and I don’t think she was carrying ID. She made a crack about traveling light. Besides, she was never a Consort Walker, so they don’t have records of her. They might not be able to track her here.”
“What if they put out a police report? Have you seen this woman; please call CCM? The school’s going to report her missing. Someone will put it together.”
“Unless the school doesn’t report her missing,” I said, and set off for the music wing.
He fell into step beside me. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Because she resigned.”
A few minutes later we were back in the Key World, standing in front of Ms. Powell’s office.
“Ms. Powell was leaving? Were you going with her?” Disbelief tinged with hurt. Maybe he hadn’t given up on me after all.
“No, and no. She left a letter in the Key World so it would propagate through the Echoes. It explained why she disappeared, so they could bring a sub in faster.” I bent over the lock, working my paper-clip picks as quickly as I could.
“Why would it matter? They’re only Echoes.”
“That’s the point. She didn’t think they were ‘only’ anything.”
Once the door swung open, I pulled down the shade and locked the door behind us.
“Not a lot of pivots in here,” Eliot said, surveying the cluttered room.
“She wouldn’t have made any, and I doubt she had kids in here very much.” Lying in the top drawer was a pale blue envelope, the principal’s name written across the front in navy ink.
It wasn’t sealed—the back flap was tucked inside—and I carefully withdrew the letter. “She wrote it by hand.”
“So?”
“So, that’s good. More convincing.” I scanned the paper. “She says she has to leave due to urgent family business—an ill relative—and she doesn’t know if or when she’ll be able to return. She even apologizes for any disruption it might cause.”
“Touching,” Eliot said. “Drop a bomb and walk away. No wonder you got along so well.”
“I’m not bailing on you.”
“Not today. But once you find the Free Walkers, what then?”
“I haven’t gotten that far,” I said. “Ms. Powell said they needed my help. So I help them.”
“And leave?”
Rather than answer, I slid the letter back in the envelope. “We need to put this in the office. The sooner they think she’s left, the less chance they’ll think she’s missing.”
“Fine. Let’s plant it and go.”
“Not yet,” I murmured, turning in a slow circle. “There’s got to be more information here. Some link to the Free Walkers, something we can use to get in touch with them.”
“What kind of link?” Eliot asked.
“A big red folder labeled ‘Top Secret Free Walker Contact Information,’ probably.”
He scowled, and I threw up my hands. “How the hell should I know? They’re a secret organization, Eliot. They don’t want to be found.”
I stared at the gray metal desk in front of me, mounds of sheet music and batons, a tangle of strings and rosin cakes and reeds. A pile of ungraded essays sat on one corner.
“This is going to take forever,” Eliot said, skimming over the files in the drawer. “These papers haven’t been touched since the nineties.”
“Then look at the stuff from this year. She had a tuning fork,” I said, striking it on the desk corner. The Key World frequency rang out.
“Most Walkers do. So do music teachers.” Eliot paused. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“This score. It’s original. And the notes are in Powell’s writing.”
“You think it’s a map?”
“Possibly. I’d need to analyze it to be sure.”
“Take it,” I said, and he stuffed the papers into my backpack.
From the shelf above the desk I took down a picture of Ms. Powell at our first orchestra concert.