The Shadow Read online

  I tell him about the food posters going up all over the city, and the people crowding around.

  “The Most Beautiful Day,” I say. “I think that’s when it’s going to happen.”

  “That’s Monday,” says Grandma.

  “Most Beautiful Day?” says Margo. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the only holiday left,” says Grandma. “At least, the only one allowed. It’s the one day when people can gather without worrying about getting arrested, let off a little steam, share whatever food they have. It’s the one day a year when people can feel good.”

  “And this is the first time the government has promised free food for everybody,” I say.

  “Free food?” says Margo. “Nonsense. Sounds like an excuse to round everybody up.”

  Lamont looks at me. “I think it’s worse than that.”

  “Well, Lamont,” says Grandma, “does the Shadow have a plan? Can we help?”

  “Jessica,” says Lamont. “Aren’t you the same person who just escaped from a top-security prison? It might be a good idea for you to lower your profile for a while.”

  Grandma doesn’t have a comeback, which is rare. I think the long day is finally catching up to her. Her chin is tipped down and I can see from the way she moves that her whole body is sore. Lamont sees it too.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he says. “You two should get some sleep.”

  Margo leans over and wraps her arms around Grandma’s neck.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she says.

  “I’m glad you’re here too,” says Grandma.

  Lamont and Margo head off toward their nook. That leaves me and Grandma in front of the stove, with Bando snoring at my feet. When I think about what happened in the past twenty-four hours, my head starts to spin. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. But today, I felt like I had no choice. I would have taken any chance to find Grandma and save her. I would have given my life.

  “Were you scared, Grandma?” I ask.

  She reaches over and brushes the hair out of my face.

  “I was afraid of not seeing you again,” she says. “Nothing else.”

  The heat from the stove is cozy, and it’s making me tired. I lean up against Grandma. She rubs my head, like she did when I was a little girl. It feels nice.

  “Whatever it took to find you, I was going to do it,” I say. “No question.”

  Grandma puts her arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight.

  “So, my brave, darling girl,” she says. “I’m learning so much about you. You can make yourself invisible. You can swim. You can bring half-dead people back to life. Is there anything else I need to know?”

  “Just one thing.” I lean my head against hers. “I love you.”

  CHAPTER 78

  MARGO WAS EXHAUSTED. She collapsed on the packing blankets without even bothering to take off her dress. Seconds later, she was asleep. Lamont was tired too—but his mind was also buzzing with worries. He was relieved to have everybody together. They were safe here for the moment. But he knew the moment wouldn’t last. Nobody was truly safe anywhere. Not as long as Khan was in power. Not with whatever plan he was hatching.

  Lamont leaned against the wall and gazed out the small window in the sleeping area. The window looked out over the front of the warehouse, with the ever-expanding river a short way off. The moon was full, and through the yellowed window glass, the bleak empty lot below almost glowed. Lamont closed his eyes. His mind reeled back to that same empty lot on another moonlit night—many, many moons ago.

  He stumbled through the warehouse door, holding Margo in his arms. White foam dribbled from their mouths and stained their elegant evening clothes. Fletcher, the white-coated scientist, stepped aside to make room for them. His eyes were baggy, his frizzy hair wild and uncombed.

  “Please!” he said to Lamont. “Let me take you to a hospital!”

  Lamont could barely speak, but he forced the words out.

  “No hospital has the antidote,” he croaked. “Activate the plan! That’s why we’re here! That’s why you’re here!”

  Fletcher rolled out two metal gurneys. He took Margo from Lamont’s arms and laid her down gently on the first one, straightening her dress to cover her pale legs. He helped Lamont onto the second gurney. Lamont craned his head toward Margo.

  “Do not die,” he whispered. “Do not die!”

  His body was stiffening and every movement brought burning pain. He pressed his shaky right hand against his side and felt the small round shape of the ring in his pocket. His secret.

  Lamont opened his eyes and exhaled slowly, his heart pounding from the memory. He walked over to the thin metal pipe where his tuxedo was hanging. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the ring. He held it up to the window. The facets of the diamond reflected the moonlight in small bright splinters.

  He looked down at Margo’s face on the bunched-up blanket she used as a pillow. She was so beautiful, and he loved her more than ever. But a proposal? Marriage? Did those concepts even make sense anymore? Marriage meant a home and comfort and security, and none of those things seemed possible right now. And children. Marriage meant children. Why would anybody want to bring a child into this filthy, miserable world? Lamont put the ring back. He lay down beside Margo and wrapped his arms around her.

  CHAPTER 79

  TEN BLOCKS AWAY, Julian Fletcher had been drinking—a lot. In the three days since leaving the warehouse, he’d been roaming from shelter to shelter and visiting the ad hoc bars that popped up in the part of the city that used to be called Tribeca. For a brief era in the last century, this neighborhood had been a thriving art district, its gritty apartments and lofts occupied by striving young filmmakers, musicians, and sculptors. But that was long before creative expression was banned except for government posters and videos.

  These days, quality liquor was as hard to find as an original painting. But Fletcher was persistent. And when he found a reliable watering hole, he patronized it for as long as it survived. He was already on his third bourbon of the evening. If the liquor hadn’t been so watered down, he would have been thoroughly drunk. As it was, he was just grumpy. He lifted his glass and let the last drop of warm liquor drip onto his tongue.

  At some point in the far distant past, this place must have been a drugstore. The white countertop still had partitions made for consultations with the pharmacist. Long rows of shelves that once held pills and lotions were now drying racks for a sparse collection of glassware. Fletcher waved to the young woman behind the counter, down at the far end.

  “Leena,” he called out. He wiggled his empty glass.

  Leena had green-streaked black hair, and dark eyes that peeked out through her sequined mask. Like everybody who served stolen liquor in the city, she was part barkeep, part lookout, part escape artist. At the first hint of a raid, she would simply whisk her small collection of bottles into a padded cooler bag and disappear into the alley. A few days later, she would reemerge to set up shop somewhere else. Anyplace with a counter and a few chairs would do.

  “Same?” she asked, hoisting the bottle of amber liquid. Fletcher nodded.

  As Leena started to pour, Fletcher saw her eyes flick up. Then he felt a firm hand clamp over his shoulder. Leena quickly dipped the bottle down below the bar.

  “Julian Fletcher!” a booming voice said.

  Fletcher turned to see a stout man in a dark suit.

  “Creighton Poole,” said Fletcher, with a slight slur. “How did you find me?”

  “Not easy,” said Poole. “This might as well be Budapest.”

  Down here below Forty-Sixth Street, Poole’s business wardrobe stood out like a clown costume. Leena eyed him suspiciously.

  “Is he government?” she asked Fletcher.

  “Worse,” said Poole, leaning over the counter. “I’m a lawyer.”

  Leena half smiled at his little joke. “Drink?” she asked, hoisting the bottle back into view. Poole waved it away.


  “Let’s try something you haven’t cut,” he said.

  Leena eyed Poole with new respect. She reached under the counter and pulled out a nicer bourbon. She tipped the neck toward him. Poole examined the wax seal around the cap. He tossed a few bills on the bar and grabbed the bottle. He motioned for two glasses. Leena handed them over. Poole headed for a small table in the corner. Fletcher got up slowly from his stool and followed him.

  When they got to the table, Poole set down the glasses and twisted the bottle cap. Small flakes of red wax fell onto the table. Poole poured two fingers into each glass. Fletcher took a deep swig of his fresh drink. The burn of the full-strength booze made him wheeze.

  “I wasn’t ready,” he said.

  “For what?” asked Poole.

  “For any of it,” said Fletcher. He took another quick gulp. “My whole life, I felt like I was working in a graveyard. And then all of a sudden I was shocking people back to life like some kind of mad scientist.”

  “You are a mad scientist,” said Poole. “You are the definition of a mad scientist. So what? The process worked. Now it’s time we both got something out of it.”

  “I should publish a research paper,” said Fletcher. “‘Modified Cryogenic Suspension and Revivification.’ I could be famous.”

  “Sure you could,” said Poole. “And then people would go right out and steal your process. Where’s the genius in that? Where’s the payoff for Dr. Julian Fletcher?”

  Poole leaned in, cradling his glass in both hands.

  “Look,” he said, “our families have been keeping secrets for generations. We’ve both been waiting forever. Not doing. Waiting. It’s time we got something.”

  “Meaning what?” said Fletcher.

  “These people…these freaks,” said Poole, “have strange…Let’s call them ‘talents.’ Not just Cranston, but his lady friend. The girl, too.”

  “Mind control,” said Fletcher. “I think they used it on me.”

  Poole took a long sip of his drink. “Not just mind control. Invisibility! Maybe more. Maybe things nobody’s seen yet.”

  “Invisibility?” said Fletcher, shaking his head. “No.”

  “Look,” said Poole, “I don’t understand it either. Maybe it’s some kind of hypnosis or voodoo. Maybe they got into some weird chemicals when you weren’t looking. All I know is, people with those kinds of skills could pose a real threat to the powers that be.”

  “Gismonde?” said Fletcher.

  “That’s right,” said Poole. “And I’m betting that the world president’s people would pay a sweet bundle for what we know. You and me.”

  Fletcher stared numbly over the rim of his glass. Even with the fuzz that coated his brain, he could see that Poole had a point. He’d spent the first half of his life waiting for something he never thought would happen. And now that his job was done, what was in it for him? There had to be something. Something better than this.

  “Trust me,” said Poole. “We’ll make enough to get off this dirty island for good.” He drained his glass and slammed it down. “Before the whole damned thing sinks.”

  CHAPTER 80

  BEING A CAT was harder than it looked. For the second time in one night, Lamont almost got himself stepped on. While he was looking the other way, a worker carrying a heavy toolbox nearly tromped on his left front paw. Lamont dodged the boot at the last instant and jumped to the top of a metal trash can. From there, he had a safe, unobstructed view of the Most Beautiful Day preparations.

  This shape-shifting power took some getting used to. In some ways, he was finding that being a cat had its advantages over being invisible. He was more agile, for one thing, and he could fit through tighter spaces. But he was still getting the hang of it. And tonight was good practice.

  A huge tent had been erected in the middle of Madison Square Park, covering the length and width of the entire block. Lamont had watched the whole operation. As squads of police stood guard, teams of workers hoisted poles, stretched huge sections of canvas, pounded stakes, and tightened ropes. Others unloaded long folding tables and metal chairs from trailer trucks. Meanwhile, two-man crews mounted extra screens on poles and trees around the park.

  Lamont was still adjusting to his small, furry body. It felt light, almost insubstantial. Sometimes it was hard to sense his position or gauge distances. But his hearing was incredible. Lamont could pick up voices, movements—even a slight whistle of wind—with unbelievable clarity. And even though his color perception suffered, his vision was amazingly sharp, especially in the dark. As Lamont watched the work proceed at two a.m., everything was as clear to him as daylight.

  From the dark corners of buildings surrounding the park, Lamont could see faces peering out, the temporary tenants of another ruined district. But when he flicked his ears just the right way, he picked up something unusual—murmurs of excitement and anticipation. The Most Beautiful Day Feast was really happening, and people could hardly wait.

  Lamont wasn’t even sure what Gismonde was planning. And until he did, he wouldn’t know how to stop it. Or at least try. All he knew for certain was that tents like this were going up all over the city. And in just two and a half days, the tents would be filled with people—men, women, and children. And they were all in danger.

  Lamont spotted a group of guards leaning against a truck lift at the far end of the park. As his squad-mates watched, one of the guards casually lifted his rifle and sighted in Lamont’s direction. Lamont’s feline muscles tensed. His fur stood straight up. He heard the pop from the firing chamber. Lamont leapt into the air, propelled by his powerful hind legs, just as the bullet punched a hole in the rim of the trash can lid.

  As he spun through the air in what felt like slow motion, Lamont heard the guards laughing, like bullies in a schoolyard. He saw the pavement rushing up at him and twisted his body to land lightly on his feet—all four of them.

  CHAPTER 81

  THE NEXT EVENING, at the World President’s Residence, just forty-four hours before the promised feast, the richest citizens of the city gathered for the annual Most Beautiful Night Gala. Decorated with strands of tiny lights, the Presidential Residence had a beautiful glow. In the circular driveway, luxury cars and official vehicles paused as excited guests stepped out. The walkway was flanked by guards in white uniforms standing at attention, their rifles held tight to their chests.

  One couple held back, watching from the shelter of a hedge at the edge of the property.

  “It’s been a while since we crashed a party,” said Lamont.

  “Are you sure we’re dressed for it?” asked Margo.

  Lamont had caught wind of the costume gala on his way back from watching the banquet being set up early that morning. He heard the police complaining about being assigned to patrol the streets during the event. And as dangerous as it was, Lamont couldn’t resist attending. It felt like a perfect scouting opportunity.

  The guests arrived two by two, all clearly wealthy, poised, and elegantly dressed. The costumes were impressive—a dizzying mix of queens and magicians, painters and pirates, explorers and high priests. One man was dressed as a medieval jester, another as a knight, complete with lance. One young woman wore a daringly brief leather bustier and carried a whip.

  In many ways, the whole scene resembled the parties that Lamont and Margo had thrown in this very house. Except that tonight, everybody was wearing masks. These privileged guests had nothing to fear from FR cameras. The masks were part of the costumes that had been required in the invitation. Unlike the crude plastic designs worn by the poor and desperate around the city, these masks were stylish and sophisticated. Most of the men opted for simple black satin, but the women had masks that melded into full headdresses—jeweled, feathered, and dazzling.

  Lamont adjusted his own outfit—a black trench coat, leather hat, and red scarf. Once again, Jessica had surprised him with her resourcefulness. When he and Maddy described the Shadow’s costume, she’d rummaged through a secondhand market
after dark and put together an excellent replica.

  Lamont looked as if he’d stepped right off the cover of one of those dime-store novels. Margo was wearing her classic white evening dress, and in Lamont’s opinion, she had never looked lovelier. From a few feet away, the costume jewelry Jessica had scavenged for her could pass for real.

  “You know we’re taking a crazy risk,” said Margo.

  “It could be our last chance to figure out exactly what they’re planning,” said Lamont. “Besides, it’s a way to mingle in high society. Just like old times.”

  Lamont lowered his simple black mask over his eyes. Margo straightened her pink embroidered version. Arm in arm, they walked past the gauntlet of guards, up the steps, and into the wide foyer. For a brief moment, they stood under the shimmering light of the crystal chandelier, the one Lamont had imported from Paris long ago. Margo took a deep breath.

  “Lamont,” she whispered. “The house is still beautiful!”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “Except for the tenant.”

  The parlor to the left of the entrance had been transformed into a cocktail lounge, where white-jacketed servers circulated with trays of canapés and champagne. To the right, in the oak-paneled library, a string quartet played Bach. Guests circulated through the marble-floored lobby on their way from one room to the other. From the balcony overlooking the main hall, a man in a somber dark suit looked down. He wore a colorful mask that mimicked a long, graceful bird beak.

  Suddenly a pair of presidential guards appeared at the head of the staircase. A few guests tapped their champagne glasses for attention and the happy buzz of the crowd quieted down.

  “It’s him,” somebody whispered. “He’s coming.”

  Even for citizens of means, an invitation to the World President’s Residence was clearly a very big deal. The tingle of anticipation was electric.

  Gismonde emerged from the upstairs hallway and stood at the top of the wide main staircase, pausing for effect. He was wearing a perfectly fitted pinstripe suit, with a mask in matching fabric. But the kicker was the robe—gold satin with an ermine collar. Breathtaking. Lamont recognized it right away. Margo grabbed Lamont’s arm.