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Connor throws him a quick and mildly disgusted glance. “Your ability to see the bright side of everything makes me sick.”
The news has gone on to the clapper attack of the week, and Pivane turns off the TV. “How long can we realistically keep Connor’s presence here a secret?”
Lev notices that Kele has taken on a growing look of silent guilt, so Lev asks him point-blank. “Who did you tell, Kele?”
“No one,” he says, and when Lev doesn’t look away, Kele tells the truth. “Just Nova. But she promised not to tell, and I trust her.” Then he adds, “I figured he was safe, since it’s the Juvenile Authority that’s after him, and Connor’s not juvenile anymore, right?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Chal explains. “His so-called crimes happened when he was under their jurisdiction, which means they can chase him into old age.”
Pivane begins pacing, Elina rubs her forehead, as if getting a headache, and Kele looks miserable and forlorn like his dog just died. Lev can already see this beginning to cascade like a rock slide.
“If word does get out,” Chal says, “and the Juvenile Authority calls for us to give him and Lev over, we can refuse. I can make a case for political asylum—and without an extradition treaty, there’s nothing the Juvenile Authority can do.”
Elina shakes her head. “They’ll put pressure on the Tribal Council and the council will give in, like they always do.”
“But it will buy time—and I can keep throwing up roadblocks to stall things.”
And then Grace chimes in. “You know what’s better than roadblocks?” she says. “Detours!”
Lev and the others take it as Grace being obtuse, but Connor, who knows her better, takes it seriously.
“Explain what you mean, Grace.”
Now that she’s the center of attention, she gets animated and excited, gesturing with her hands so much, it almost resembles old-world sign language. “See, if you stop them with roadblocks, they’ll break through each one soon enough. A better strategy would be to send them down some winding path that goes on and on, so’s they think they’re makin’ progress, but really they’re just spinnin’ their wheels.”
Stunned silence for a moment, and Pivane grins. “That actually makes sense.”
Lev looks to Connor, raising his eyebrows. Clearly there’s more to Grace than meets the eye.
Chal gets a far-off, but intense look, like he’s pondering an equation. “The Hopi are desperate for me to represent them in a major land dispute. I could agree to do it, and in return, the Hopi council could agree to announce that they’re giving Connor and Lev asylum.”
“So,” says Connor, putting it all together, “even if people around here start talking, the Juvies won’t hear it, because they’ll be all over the Hopi—and when they finally find out we’re not there, they’ll be back to square one!”
The mood, which just a moment ago lay flat with despair, is quickly rebounding toward hope. Lev, however, feels a sizeable lump in his throat. “Would you go out on that much of a limb for us?” he asks his hosts.
They don’t answer for a moment. Pivane won’t meet his eye, and Elina defers to Chal. Finally Chal speaks for all of them. “We did wrong by you before, Lev. This is a chance to make things right.”
Pivane grasps Lev’s shoulder hard enough that it hurts, but Lev doesn’t let it show. “I must admit I take a little bit of pride to be harboring modern folk heroes.”
“We’re not heroes,” Lev tells him.
At that Elina smiles. “No true hero ever believes that they are one,” she tells him. “So you go ahead, Lev, and keep denying it with every fiber of your being.”
27 • Starkey
Mason Starkey knows he’s a hero. He knows this beyond any shadow of doubt. The many lives he’s saved proves it. The evidence is all around him—his storks, all spirited from the death throes of the airplane graveyard, kept alive and safe through cleverness and well-placed sleight of hand. But it’s only a beginning. The groundwork has been laid for a great work—and for his own personal greatness, which he will more than earn. Starkey knows that there’s a grand destiny waiting for him, and his first foray into the limelight of history is about to begin.
“The Egret Academy,” says the pleasant woman, reading the logo on his forest-green T-shirt, as Starkey signs the guest registry. “Is that a parochial school?”
“Nondenominational,” Starkey tells her. “I’m the youth minister.”
She smiles at him, taking him at his word. How could she not? His clean-cut, blond, well-groomed appearance reeks of honesty and integrity.
“Is the school here in Lake Tahoe?”
“Reno,” he says without hesitation.
“Too bad. I’m looking for a good school for my own kids. One with the right moral values.”
