SYLO (THE SYLO CHRONICLES) Read Free Page A

that he was incredibly smart—and enjoyed the fact that he stood out in a crowd. I, on the other hand, was more of the “blending in” type. I stood a good head shorter than Quinn and kept my brown hair cut short. I wouldn’t consider myself particularly brainy, though I weighed in with a solid B-minus average in school. Not bad, in my book. Unfortunately my parents had a different book. I was tired of hearing: “Tucker Pierce, you are not living up to your potential.” How did they know what my potential was? How could anybody know? It was a constant argument that often led to a midnight ride.
    Quinn jammed his helmet down over his bushy hair and pulled down goggles over his glasses. He looked like a dork and couldn’t have cared less.
    “What do you think happened to Marty?” I asked.
    Quinn shrugged. “We’ll know more tomorrow.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “My parents are doing the autopsy as we speak.”
    The quiet night suddenly got quieter. I’d forgotten that Quinn’s mom and dad were doctors at Arbortown Medical.
    “Oh, right,” I said softly. “Thanks for that image.”
    “Hey, you asked. Let’s ride.”
    I did my best to shake the gruesome reality as we mounted up,flicked on our headlights, and pedaled out of town. Quinn and I rarely spoke during these ten-mile rides because the whole point was to push ourselves physically and mentally. It took serious concentration to keep from hitting a pothole or a patch of sand that would lead to a painful case of road rash, especially at the speed we were going, at night, with only a small light focused on the pavement ahead. The winding road was full of dips and turns, which meant we had to stay focused or end up with broken bones.
    The route took us along the perimeter of Pemberwick Island. We traveled counterclockwise, which meant the ocean was to our right. The four-lane road never got much closer than a hundred yards from the beach. At times there would be thick forest between us and the water; other times we’d pass sandy bluffs covered in sea grass that gave us a clear view of the water. We occasionally passed a darkened house, but most of the route was through undeveloped terrain that hadn’t changed in, well, ever.
    There was no moon out, which normally meant a dark trip, but it was one of those nights that was so incredibly clear you could see most every star in the sky. Downtown Portland was well over five miles away across the water so there were no lights to prevent the sky from lighting up with millions of tiny sparkles. It was so bright that I considered turning off my headlight but figured I still needed to see obstacles in the road so I directed the beam to hit just ahead of my front tire.
    It didn’t take long before I was breathing hard and sweating, which was exactly what I needed. I could feel the tension drift away. I don’t know if it was about releasing endorphins or about forcing myself to focus on something as simple as working out, but the ridewas doing the job. Quinn was a genius, not only because he knew this would help but because he knew that I needed it.
    “What’s that?” he called to me.
    “What’s what?”
    “Listen.”
    All I could hear was the sound of our tires rolling over the blacktop and the turning of our chains.
    “I don’t hear anything,” I replied.
    “You don’t hear that?” he asked. “It’s like music.”
    I listened again…and heard it. It was a single, steady note that drifted on the breeze. It was faint, but definitely there. It didn’t sound natural, like wind through the trees or a migrating whale. It was too precise for that. The note changed and hung there for a few seconds, then changed again. It wasn’t a tune, but a series of notes held steady, as if being played by an unseen electric piano. It came and went, sometimes loud and clear, other times hardly audible.
    “What is it?” I asked. “There aren’t any houses around here.”
    We slowed and sat up on our seats.
    “It